


Seeking Sanctuary

by Spada2014



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Action/Adventure, Broody Demon Hunter, F/M, High-Maintenance Wizard, Opposites Attract, Slow Romance, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spada2014/pseuds/Spada2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ancient tomes on the arcane echo a well-known truth: "Opposites are complimentary." It explains why the human race, the result of Angels and Demons consorting, exists. It may also explain why he, a brooding Demon Hunter, and she, a flamboyant Wizard, can't seem to get along without exchanging barbs, and yet begin to realize that their fates may be bound by more than a fallen star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was the first fic I ever wrote and for two years I kind of left it alone back on FF, not sure what I wanted to do with it, if anything, while I dedicated myself to other stories, different fandoms. I often thought of pulling this down as I wasn't happy with the writing, the pacing, some of the characterizations. This week, for some reason, I started playing Diablo III again and while debating whether I wanted to level up my Demon Hunter or my Wizard, found myself wishing I could have them play together. Maybe it's because the woman wizard is voiced by none other than Grey Delisle, who also provided the voice for one of fantasy's most badass wizards ever, Azula, from Avatar (ok, she was psycho, but still...pretty awesome?) and that haughty overconfidence really shines through the character. And the man Demon Hunter is so moody... but ultimately caring, as we see in dialogue through the game. The plot bunnies got agitated and a result of that, I thought of this story, came back to it, decided to dust it off and give it a some much needed love...and life.
> 
> It's been edited and some parts have been rewritten. Chapter 4 is where I think things start getting really interesting. I am sort of sticking to the general story line, but won't be sticking to it too faithfully. 
> 
> I'd even argue that you don't need to be a big Diablo III player to enjoy this-I just find the rapport between the characters can be very intriguing...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 1: Homecoming**

"In winter, Sun is yonder.  
The only warmth,  
From a heart grown fonder."

Stanislas sat in a quiet stupor listening to the lilting singing voice of the young woman strumming her lute for the entertainment of the six or so guests amassed in the modest inn's tavern. Outside a storm raged, causing the already-jumpy guests to startle every time the wind rattled the shutters.

"Bad night," Bron, the innkeeper commiserated to one of his customers.

"No worse than the usual," the stout man grumpily replied, settling into what appeared to be a long night of drinking. "If it's not the torrential rains, it's the undead. I am quite done with that wretched farm."

"The militia couldn't…?"

"The _militia_!" the man interrupted the innkeeper. "A bunch of lads who don't know which way to wipe their arses!" The man's laugh was phlegmy and bitter. "The farm will soon be overrun. Too much trouble holding hordes at bay anymore. No one's left- or interested- to go on an incursion against them and reclaim the lost ground. And what for? Every day we saw signs they were approaching. I cannot bear it anymore. Theodora has already moved into the city. If my Wendel were still alive, we would fight, gain ground, make them nail their coffins shut from the inside…" his voice trailed off.

"It is a good thing you have come into the city, then" the innkeeper replied gently. "It's not wise to venture out there unarmed. Hopefully it is short lived this time and you will be able to return-"

The man shooed him with a dismissive wave of his hand and raised his cup to be filled.

Stanislas tried to focus again on the young woman, her shapely figure outlined in the velvety blue dress, but found his thoughts straying.

_New Tristram is too cursed. Its fate has been sealed by the falling star._

He tossed back the remainder of his drink, slamming the cup down so violently when he finished, conversation in the room ceased momentarily and the young woman hesitated for a moment before resuming her strumming.

"What ails you?" Kormac leaned forward, a hint of concern in his voice. Even Leah glanced up from the large tome she had been perusing all evening.

_I am tired. Yet, when I close my eyes, all I see are creatures stirring in the shadows. I feel their eyes upon me. I cannot go on like this._

Stanislas rose from the table wordlessly and tossed a few coins on the table before turning away.

He wondered if the others suspected anything.

Earlier they had been inside the old Cathedral, searching once again for the burning star that had hurtled down from the sky, setting the horizon in New Tristram ablaze. He could sense it humming, pulsing in his bones, insistently, a spell of sorts summoning him to the steps of the ruined Cathedral. Leah had called his name repeatedly while she and Kormac waited outside, as he wandered farther through the debris, mesmerized by the majesty and peace of the decaying ruins. Once-opulent rooms buckled under the ravages of time, dampness, rats…and other creatures. Sumptuously upholstered chairs had burst open at their brocaded seams, their stuffing oozing out in a tangle of mildew and fluff along the walls of what must have once been a meeting room. Tapestries detailing the heroic exploits of brave knights- King Leoric's, perhaps?- fluttered in shreds as the cold night wind blew through the broken beams in the roof. Stanislas gripped his crossbow tightly with one hand and his lantern's handle with the other, his knuckles white from the tension, listening with heightened alertness to the darkness surrounding him.

 _Demons. The undead. The walls were teeming with their presence._ He inhaled deeply, his pulse quickening.

He caught a flicker of silver in a great cracked mirror and fell into a combative stance, quickly dropping the lantern.

_Silence._

Peering back into the blackness of the mirror before him, he discovered the source of the eerie silver light: his own eyes, staring back from his angular, gaunt face.

 _What is this?_ he wondered, glancing around him, sheepishly picking up the lantern.

_Is it fear?_

He forged ahead, stepping over a pile of debris strewn across his path. The ground grew uneven, the stones loose.

_No, I am familiar with fear. I knew it well. This is not fear._

He had emerged in the Cathedral's nave. Behind him he could faintly discern Kormac and Leah's calls, but he paid them no heed. In the desolate gloom, among burned, splintered pews, toppled statues, and crumbling arches, he couldn't help thinking there was something alluring, something darkly beautiful about the Cathedral.

_Even as I tread this cursed ground, walking among the damned, among those who no longer retain any vestiges of humanity, who lurk in the darkness as they prepare to unleash their rage…Why is it? Why is that I feel this way?_

_That I feel as if I belong?_

_This,_ he had thought, pacing down the Cathedral's nave, _is a homecoming: among the pillage and slaughter and absurdity and rot. This,_ he had realized, pausing before the altar, aware of an increasingly frenzied rustling in the background, _is what I know best. All my life has become._

He set the lantern down on a pew, his demeanor stern but peaceful. He raised his crossbow before whirring around and rapidly firing an arrow into the oncoming ghoul. The grayish corpse attempted to rake the air before him with its razor-sharp claws even as it staggered back from the strike. Its beady eyes glistened bloodily, the arrow having hit it squarely in the forehead. Its gaping maw twisted into a pained grimace as it toppled motionlessly onto the flagstones.

A reverent quiet fell upon him. There would be more; they were coming. And when they arrived, they would find him waiting, ready. The moonlight filtering through the few remaining stained glass windows of the cathedral cast a ghostly blue glow around him.

 _Let us 'prey' together, my brothers and sisters,_ he smirked.


	2. Heart of the Storm

_Black._

Leah observed Stanislas discreetly from behind the pages of her book.

Tall and sinewy. His skin had a warm, tawny hue, his hair was sleek and black, but his eyes were a cool grey. In the dark she had seen those eyes reflect an ominous silver gleam when engaged in slaying the demonic. He dressed black all the time: from his hood to his boots.

"I like black: you can't see the blood stains," he explained half seriously when she had asked if everything he owned was black or if he just wore the same thing over and over.

He was curt and ill-tempered, she'd found. Whenever he sat with her and Kormac in the evenings he made her uneasy and too aware of the silence hanging between them. At least Kormac willingly launched into conversation and had stories to tell: life in his order, past campaigns and battles, the betrayals he'd endured, his constant puzzling over why folk preferred to do things differently than he would, and so on and on, it seemed. But Kormac had left them early that evening, tired and preoccupied, his still-healing injuries finally catching up with him.

All in all it had been a bad day. They'd finally broached the dank halls of the cathedral, always aware of shadows flickering just outside the corners of their eyes, of the rustling and slithering in dark corners just before they flashed their lanterns and torches. They were ambushed a couple times, but Stanislas had led them impassively out of each trap. The undead creatures that hobbled toward them appeared menacing, but were in reality also slow, decaying, and fairly easy to knock down with the blow of a sword or axe. They wandered until they reached an isolated staircase, winding down into an enclave below. Just as Stanislas and Kormac began to make their way downward, Leah cried out for them to stop their descent. Her uncle had taught her that much. There were ceremonial rooms in those old cathedrals, places left quiet for a reason. Cathedrals, Uncle Deckard had explained, were built on ancient ritual sites, where old power had left traces and still lingered. People had been worshiping there for a long time, even before the high-buttressed ceilings soared above them in the cathedral. Such places had to be approached carefully, reverentially, paying heed to whatever forces still lingered there. She could practically sense the magic coursing through the building. They had argued back and forth, with Stanislas insisting on going down and Leah pointing out with frustration that it was reckless to attempt doing so. Kormac had, very irritatingly and unhelpfully, she concluded, left the decision up to Stanislas. Stanislas finally agreed to depart with the understanding they would return as soon as Leah had researched properly what they could be up against in those lower halls. He'd been angry, though, complaining about how they had wasted the day, how they had cleared their path all the way there and would have to do so again, perhaps against greater numbers, the next day. He even hissed something unpleasant about her not feeling the urgency of finding her uncle.

That, she thought, she had not appreciated at all.

Yet, without him and his reckless attitude, there would be no hope, she realized. And she did hope fervently they would find Uncle Deckard. Uncle Deckard was clever and wise and where others were worldly in such esoteric matters, he was _otherworldly_ , she grinned to herself.

"What's so amusing?" the raspy voice spoke to her from across the table.

"I was remembering something my Uncle told me," she replied defiantly.

"I thought you were researching what horrors await us in that pit in the Cathedral. Wouldn't you rather actually _hear_ your uncle speak rather than just _remember_ him speak?"

Leah shut the book abruptly, startling him and even the innkeeper observing them.

"You must know that there are fates worse than death! Those creatures we had to slay are a testament to that. I want to save my Uncle, but I don't let that yearning overpower my reason. It would go against everything my Uncle taught me," she declared. "Don't mock me for wanting to have a strategy that keeps us all alive!" she said, slightly more peeved than she had intended.

Stanlislas blinked at her slowly. She held his gaze steadily, uncomfortable as it was. He finally cracked a smile and leaned back into his chair.

"You are a force to be reckoned with," he mused.

"Do you say that about anyone who doesn't do as you please?"

"Only the live, human ones that haven't been horribly cursed. The others I just kill."

_The arrogance!_

"I suppose there is beauty in such simplicity," Leah replied dryly before pushing her chair away from the table and standing up.

"Stay," Stanislas asked gently.

"I have much to do still if we are to get a head start early tomorrow."

"You remind me of someone who was very dear to me," he said. " I will never see her again."

Leah hesitated. He'd let down his guard. As annoyed as she was, she had a soft spot for those with sad tales. _Pretty much everyone here_ , she realized sheepishly.

"You should go find her." Leah sat down again, trying to disguise her curiosity.

"I may see her again someday, I imagine. Perhaps sooner rather than later if I don't listen to you," he grinned again.

"What do you mean?" she puzzled.

"She is dead," came the hollow reply.

The fire crackled and the flames sparked for a moment as a log split in the hearth.

"I am very sorry," Leah offered sincerely.

He nodded and raised the cup of ale to his lips and sipped quietly, pensively. She leafed through her book once more, looking for the last page she had been reading. Her mind raced, though. Was the mysterious woman his lover? _Did she die at the hands of the demons? Is that what drove him to become what he is?_ She peered up at him once more and found the piercing gray eyes fixed on her. _Do I want to know? Wasn't it better thinking that he was simply something conjured out of thin air to help us?_

"Tell me about her," Leah asked kindly, at last, stowing the book away over her lap.

"She had a dusting of freckles over her nose, just like you," he began. His tone was uncharacteristically warm. "And she had no qualms telling king and peasant alike what was on her mind," he said. "She generous, giving... Like you. I have seen how the people in this town seek your aid, advice, and even courage," he spoke quietly. Leah held her breath. "She could not bear any injustice, any cruelty. She was a gentle soul." He stopped and looked away for a moment. "I couldn't protect her. Even when I thought I was carrying her to safety in my arms that night, the harm had already been done. She was consumed by grief over all that we lost on one horrid night and lost all her will to live. When the slaughter began that night, we were unarmed, defenseless. We barely managed to escape out the back door of the farmhouse, but she had already seen too much…All the evil, all the senseless violence perpetrated by the hellborn, and the images haunted her after, never fading from her mind's eye. She took her own life shortly after my family's farm was overrun by demons."

Leah listened, a heaviness weighing on her chest.

"Her name was Rosalie. She was my younger sister."

"But you survived!" Leah interjected sympathetically, after a moment of awkward silence. "You survived and can honor her memory."

She did not know if that was the right thing to say or if it was just a tired platitude. His gaze hardened at her words.

"I honor her memory? Yes, I did survive… But what is this life? I live only to wreak vengeance upon anything touched by hell," he sneered. 

He realized his fists were clenched tightly. The bewildered expression on Leah's face alerted him to his rising emotions.

Emotions, he understood, other than the ones that compelled him fearlessly into black holes in the ground, were dangerous. Fatal even. There was no room for the gentler feelings, that melancholy that sometimes overcame him, clouding his vision, weakening his grip.

Love was a weakness, a vulnerability. It had almost destroyed him as each shriek from his mother and father cleaved into him that terrible night. It had been why his hands had trembled so as he caressed the cold, lifeless cheeks of the sweet girl he cradled against his chest not so long afterwards. Back then, he would have died right there, too, beside her, grown roots into the ground and held her close, sheltering her from the elements, for all eternity. It had taken two of them, seasoned Demon Hunters, to wrest him away, as he howled in anger and hurt, away from her, as the pyre burned and thick black smoke spiraled into the silent heavens.

Now there was nothing to lose, nothing to fear.

Hate, he understood, was as powerful.

He did not fight because he sought to preserve life.

It was or the power, for the strength. For the promise that he would never suffer that way again. It invigorated him and gave him a purpose. He had freely chosen to shoulder that burden and the Demon Hunters must have sensed that profound capacity to hate in him, even when they discovered him, a grieving, broken shell of a boy, listlessly moving about in the world.

Kormac and Leah were merely allies in a common struggle. He had to be careful, he noted with irritation, not to let those gentler thoughts assail him. He did not need friends.

* * *

 

Leah read the same sentence over and over stopping and starting the page she was on again. She was flustered, her heart beating rapidly.

She was scared.

That odd man in black clothing was human, after all. She'd had a glimpse of Stanislas as he'd once been: not the cold, methodical, deadly Demon Hunter, but the boy, a son and brother, who had lived by the seasons and rains, his hands capable of coaxing life from the dark earth.

She still found him intimidating, she remarked to herself, taking in his furrowed brow, but perhaps she resented him for it a bit less. As she allowed her eyes to linger over his stern demeanor, the last lines of an old blessing her Uncle had taught her came to mind. She recited it in her mind, her intention for Stanislas:

_May no tempests mar the peaceful solitude of your soul._

She hesitated for a brief instant before adding:

_My friend._


	3. Living Tomb

Stanislas, Kormac, and Leah tumbled down the halls, crashing into each other, frantically scrambling away from the ancient passageway they had broken into earlier.

"This way!" Stanislas roared at both of them.

Kormac, Leah noticed, looked as dazed as she. They held their swords at eye level, tensely, following Stanislas' voice into an alcove. He swiftly barricaded it by propping up a massive, decaying wooden door that had rotted straight off its hinges with a fallen beam.

"Hold the beam in place!" he ordered them, reaching beneath his leather armor for a small black pouch filled with a gray powder he took a small pinch of and sprinkled before the entrance, tracing symbols on the flagstones at the threshold.

 _Warding signs_ , Leah noted. _The powder must be a reagent for potent magic: a relic's burnt remains, or even the charred bones of some witch or mystic._

As soon as he concluded his ritual, he leaned against the wall, listening for noises beyond the corridor. He raised his finger to his lips cautiously, urging their complete silence. Leah pressed her lips together tightly as Kormac remained grave and focused,  staring expectantly at the door, bracing the cracked beam with both arms. Shuffling sounds brushed up and down the hallway they had just run from. An eerie noise—the grinding scrape of metal against stone— came to a halt farther away. Leah winced as a deep voice spoke, reverberating through the walls, its words unintelligible and ancient.

They had lured out something sinister.

They were in over their heads.

* * *

That morning they had set out to the Cathedral prepared to face whatever lurked beneath the main nave. They had expected the usual onslaught of undead flinging themselves heavily and aimlessly at them, as they had in the past couple of days, but were met instead with an ominous silence. Leah had not been able to find anything in her tomes about what ancient beings still claimed the lower catacombs.

 _Uncle Deckard would know_ , she had thought the night before, carefully putting his book on _Tristram's Genealogy of Conjuring_ back on the bookshelf at the inn.

Wandering down the Cathedral that morning, she ran her fingers over the walls, alert and focused.

At one point she had felt a twinge, a slight hint of recognition.

"He is here!" she whispered excitedly. "Uncle-"

Stanislas glared at her reproachfully and she quickly covered her mouth.

 _No names!_ she chastised herself at her carelessness. Names could be used in the horrific curses against them.

"Right. We should agree on how we will call each other when we go inside," she proposed.

Kormac nodded, enthusiastically.

"Excellent plan! I, for one, have always admired the great warrior-"

"Numbers," Stanislas cut him off. "I will be One, Leah, Two-"

"You get to be _One_?" Leah interjected, annoyed. "Why do you get to be number One?"

"Fine. Two or Three- I honestly don't care," he sighed.

"Zero," she stated.

Stanislas appeared disconcerted for a moment before grinning slyly.

"Very well," he amended. "I am Zero, Leah is One, and Kormac is Two."

Both men checked Leah's expression, and seeing that she appeared satisfied, made their way down the dank stairwell, Kormac leading the way.

"You think of me as Nothing, then?" Stanislas whispered behind her as they descended further.

"I do think of you as a great unknown," she whispered back briskly.

"I like it, this new name. As the old saying goes, "Nothing risked, Nothing gained…"

She was about to reply in kind, something along the lines of "So much suffering for Nothing," but a sharp clang ahead of them caused all three to hold still in alert.

A group of three assassins leaped out from the sides of a set of pillars framing the entrance to a forbidding doorway. Before anything was uttered, Kormac and Stanislas ran up to confront them. Leah rapidly armed her crossbow. Metal grazed metal as Kormac deftly swung his longsword to deflect one of the assassin's attacks, subsequently bashing his helm squarely into his face. The man staggered backwards before collapsing onto the ground. Without hesitation, Kormac plunged the sword into his chest. Stanislas swerved and ducked out of the path of a heavily swinging mace before tackling the second assassin's legs. The third assassin however, took a fistful of Stanislas' hair, tugging him down to the ground.

"Zero!" Leah cried.

Kormac whirled around and engaged the assassin Stanislas had toppled to the ground by forcefully slamming his boot into his chest, thwarting further attacks. Stanislas and the other assassin grappled with each other over the floor, rolling to the side of the hall. The man kept a tight grip on Stanislas' hair, yanking forcefully at it so that Stanislas head was pinned back. As the man frantically reached for his mace nearby with his other hand,  Stanislas endured another volley of tugs before pulling his legs up and patting the side of his boot for the thin dagger he'd concealed there. Quickly palming it, he aimed blindly, upwards, and the blade struck something hard, but still yielding. A stronger yank to his head unexpectedly culminated into a release. The assassin crashed onto his knees before his field of vision, and as he glanced up, caught a glimpse of the dagger's handle protruding from the man's neck. The dying man made a throaty gurgling sound as he attempted to speak. Stanislas stood up, raised his foot and with a rapid kick, sent the gasping man falling backwards.

Kormac eliminated the last assassin with a decapitating arc of his sword. Stanislas glanced behind him, at Leah, just in time to see her unload her crossbow on a fourth assassin who had been lurking in the hallway behind them. The man clasped the arrow embedded in his chest and fell sideways. Stanislas looked at the immobile heap and nodded at Leah.

"Good one, One!"

She grimaced at his attempt at cleverness and reloaded the crossbow.

"Given the welcome we have received, I would gather we are close," Kormac mused.

"Close to what, though?" Leah wondered.

"We will have to find out now," he concluded.

Stanislas brushed himself off and scanned the corpses for anything useful. Two of the men had markings inked into their flesh. They were cult markings, the kind given to initiates, Stanislas noticed. He unmasked them and noted the fairer hair and stern features of the Northern clans of two of them. He pushed one of the corpses out of his way with a thrust of his foot. Dislodging his blade from the assassin's neck, he wiped it clean of bloodstains on the dead man's tunic, and slipped it safely back into his boot.

"Two of these men are cultists, but the others are hired mercenaries. Whatever is happening here, these cultists felt they needed the manpower to either break into these rooms or prevent others from entering."

Kormac knelt over one of the dead, examining the markings. "I recognize this: it is a _demonic_ cult. Lesser demon, Radashiel," he concluded. "Minion of Mephisto's.,, What are they doing this far south? Why did they feel the need to come here, of all places?" Kormac continued, genuinely puzzled.

"Same reason we came to Old Tristram and everything else is-literally-crawling out of the woodwork: for the star," Stanislas remarked.

"I'm not interested in the star right now. I came here for my uncle," Leah clarified, pushing past them. "And I intend to find him. You are welcome to seek the star once we have found him."

"I also admit I did not come specifically for the star," Kormac confessed, slipping his longsword back into the sheath slung across his back. "I came to find the Tomes of my order once I received word that the Cathedral had been struck."

"Act like the star doesn't matter all you want: your uncle is being held captive here because it crashed into this place and caused enough of a turmoil that malevolent dormant forces have been reawakened," he explained, pointing at Leah. "And you are seeking ancient manuscripts that may have survived the impact," he turned to Kormac with slight exasperation. "The star is the cause all of this. Who is to say who else has been affected by it, or even sees in it an augur?"

He stared at the large doorway.

"We need to enter this room."

Leah was about to protest, but Stanislas raised his hand.

"You perused all your histories and records and found nothing. I let you do things your way. Now we do things my way."

"But we cannot go in there not knowing-"

"We DO know," Stanislas insisted. "Let us agree right now that whatever is behind that door is the reason why these men were armed to the teeth. Let us agree that whatever is behind the door will involve a fight to the death."

"Is there any other kind?" Leah stated glumly.

"I am prepared for a glorious victory," Kormac declared boldly.

Leah frowned. Kormac was disposed to dispense those rallying cries of bravado.

"If your Uncle is alive-"

"He is!" she protested. "I don't know why, but I am sure he is still alive, somewhere within these walls! I can feel it!"

"If your Uncle is in fact alive," he proceeded calmly, "then we must make haste. He has waited long enough and I doubt he will be able to withstand another night in this place. Something does not bode well."

"It is true," Kormac agreed. "I find it odd that we haven't run into any undead yet."

"Forces are collecting and stirring. We act while they ebb and before they flow." Stanislas stepped up to the elaborate doorway: an archway prominently displaying the heads of gargoyles at  the sides, framing a heavy wooden door that was deeply scratched and scorched.

It was locked, of course. He attempted kicking it open, but it would not budge.

"Stop!" Leah hissed. "You might as well knock and announce we have arrived!"

She edged herself between both men and examined the door. After a moment of contemplation, she turned towards them triumphantly.

"It's a _blodison_ door. You cannot open it by any ordinary means."

"A bloody what?" Kormac wondered confusedly.

"'Hallowed by blood,' " Stanislas cast her an approving glance. "Of course!"

"We can only unseal it by offering it blood."

She scanned the door, running her fingers along the keyhole. "No…none of these…" She brushed her hands over the doorway and finally settled her gaze upon the gargoyles, their mouths agape in a twisted grin. "Here!" she exclaimed. "We pour the blood here!"

Stanislas bent down over one of the assassins and dragged the corpse to the doorway. He propped the man over the first gargoyle, angling him in a way so that the blood still oozing from his neck wound trickled over the gargoyle's stony tongue. Once he repeated the act on the second gargoyle, he dropped the corpse and stepped aside. Within moments, the heavy locks rolled back, and the door opened slowly, as if propelled by a gentle breeze. Leah raised her lantern.

Before them extended a great abyssal blackness.

"I hope you realize that _blodison_ doors are only used to seal great evil contained within consecrated ground?" Leah felt she needed to announce, glancing over her shoulder.

"'Great' is a relative term," Stanislas smirked, seizing his sword and crossbow.

"Do you not exercise any caution?" she asked exasperatedly.

He marched past her and once he reached the edge of their lantern-lit circle, turned to her and pointedly stated, "You should fear… Nothing." He winked before crossing the threshold.

Leah pursed her lips and shook her head.

 _Brash and foolish_ , she thought.

But the tightness in her chest seemed to lift slightly at the time.

They were getting closer to Uncle Deckard.

* * *

As they stood in the blocked alcove, holding the wooden beam in almost complete darkness, she was terrified. They'd done everything wrong from the moment they crossed the _blodison_ : the entrance collapsed shortly after they wandered past it. Their only known way out had been sealed off. As they roamed the labyrinthine passages, it became clearer and clearer that they were descending into a burial chamber of sorts. As they crossed an underground atrium, they triggered something- perhaps an old spell, a ward, a trap. All around them hideous creatures began to rise from the rubble. Unlike the undead they had run into the Cathedral at the surface, those beings were quicker, stronger, and definitely dangerous. They fought their way past one group only to find themselves in heated pursuit down passageways they were not sure they had encountered before.

"I am almost out of arrows!" Leah had announced nervously.

"Then use a sword," Stanislas snapped impatiently.

"I don't know how to wield a sword well."

"Stay close to me," Kormac instructed, protectively.

"No! You have to fight!" Stanislas stormed up to her, in exasperation. "Kormac cannot risk himself defending you. You came here with us knowing fully well what the stakes were. Tell me you have more tricks up your sleeve than only shooting away with a crossbow!"

Leah clutched the pommel of the short bladed sword she had brought along. Her eyes stung, but she dared not blink and give him the satisfaction of knowing he had shaken her resolve.

"I am none of your concern."

Stanislas turned away again, moving ahead, impassively.

Kormac looked at her sympathetically.

"Stay close," he mouthed.

At that point, they had crowded into the alcove, where they currently found themselves hiding. The warding spell Stanislas had etched was quickly wearing out. They observed with trepidation as the ashen powder burned away into faint embers. Once consumed, they would be vulnerable to the army of undead warriors outside.

"These are the burial chambers of King Leoric," Stanislas muttered, peering about. "There is our connection to the cultists, Kormac."

Kormac glanced over at Stanislas.

"But he had been defeated, hadn't he?"

"Defeated, but not destroyed."

"How many inhabit the void left by the soul in a corpse?" Leah complained.

 _Did anything stay dead?_ she wondered in frustration. And why was it that nothing righteous and heavenly seemed to return? Only the demonic appeared to scoff at and cross the boundaries between life and death.

Outside heavy footsteps halted before the door.

The warding ashes coiled and curled, fizzling out on the ground.

A thin film of sweat coated the surface of Stanislas' skin. He glanced around the room and noticed  Kormac's forehead was glistening too.

"We will not go down without a fight," he admonished them tensely. "We'll take as many as we can with us."

He stared at Leah's reddish hair and delicate features. He caught himself stilling his hand midair before reaching her head.

Outside a loud shout echoed among the awaiting undead. Footsteps suddenly scattered in every direction. All three listened with curiosity.

"What is happening?" Leah whispered.

"Can it be? They are leaving?" Kormac whispered in disbelief.

"Quiet. Something is happening outside," Stanislas hushed them cautiously.

They heard a voice- this one a bit hoarse and cracked. Shaky, but unmistakably human as it uttered an incantation loudly enough to to push away the undead soldiers. Leah's eyes widened and she sprung eagerly towards the door.

"Uncle!" she cried, pounding on the wooden door with the heel of her hand. "Uncle!"

Shuffling footsteps halted outside.

"Is it you, child? Are you here?" he called back to her. "I never thought I'd see you again!"

Leah struggled, trying to eek open a passage between the door and the stone. Stanislas and Kormac lowered the beam down carefully and slid the door open slightly. Leah squeezed through the narrow opening before leaping into Deckard Cain's arms.

"Uncle! You are _alive_!"

Stanislas and Kormac followed her, taking in the wizened figure.

Cain was a fragile-looking old man, his hair a wispy white, fine as cobweb strands. His clothes, a green robe and a dark-colored cloak, were torn and stained. Despite his haggard appearance, Stanislas noticed he was still rather spry and in possession of his full faculties.

"We do not have much time. I have managed to frighten off the lesser retainers with a simple luminosity spell, but I am almost all out of reagents and I cannot hold off the King himself, should he appear before us!"

"Lead the way," Stanislas urged him.

Cain nodded and began heading down the hall.

Just as they lined up behind him, the old man turned to them confusedly.

"Which way is out?"

Stanislas drew in a sharp breath.

"We were counting on your knowledge."

"Don't you think that if I knew where the exit was, I would have already escaped?" Cain asked, intrigued.

Further behind them moans and grunts erupted. A small squad of undead made haste in their direction.

"Be gone!" Cain shouted, thrusting his hand forward and releasing a blinding flash of light that lit the narrow passageway. The creatures hissed and shrieked at the burst, retreating from the brightness around the corner they had emerged from.

All four exchanged glances as the light flickered faintly before dying out.

"Perhaps if we make our way back to the rubble at the entrance, we could attempt to clear it?" Kormac offered.

Leah noticed that even Stanislas appeared unsure.

_Uncle, please think of something._

Cain rubbed his beard deep in thought for a few minutes. He stared at the stone walls pensively before exclaiming: "There is another way out!"

"Excellent!" Kormac cheered.

"Follow me!"

They made their way down further.

"I have been avoiding it as much as possible, but truly it is our only way out."

"What do you mean?" Stanislas inquired.

"It's the antechamber of the King's actual burial chamber. Traditionally, these tombs were built to keep intruders out. They are filled with traps and designed so that you cannot retrace your steps. However, master builders always left one passageway open, so they could exit, should overzealous authorities wish to entomb them away with their secrets also," Cain explained as they made their way down a wide nave of inlaid stone flanked with columns.

"So you are taking us to the burial chambers of King Leoric?" Kormac asked, bewildered.

"Antechambers. And King Leoric is no more. The man died long before his body decayed: Mephisto and Diablo saw to that," Cain explained impatiently. "What is left now is a horribly cursed creature that bears no resemblance to the good King."

"And you expect us to be evenly matched for such a combat?" Stanislas asked, glancing at Leah.

Cain's face clouded.

"If an old man like me has survived these many days, I can only marvel at what such young bodies can accomplish. Demonic as our attackers may be, metal still cuts them down."

Cain reached into the folds of his robe and his hand emerged clutching a small dagger.

Kormac's eyes widened and he stepped forward, his longsword at the ready. Leah nodded to her uncle, raising her crossbow.

Stanislas shook his head. The situation was oddly comical despite their dire circumstances.

"I commend you on your rallying spirit, old man," he stated. "I am merely emulating your niece's cautiousness," he glanced at Leah, who glared back at him. "We should devise a strategy."

"What do you propose, Demon Hunter?" Cain asked, taking in Stanislas' hooded dark attire and gleaming eyes.

Stanislas pointed at Kormac.

"You: charge ahead. I will follow immediately. Leah," he began. "You stay back and defend your uncle if needed."

Both Cain and Leah began to protest, each outraged at Stanislas' assumption they were incompetent in battle. Kormac attempted to appease the quarrelsome duo, but eventually became irked himself, since he was anxious to engage in combat. Stanislas rubbed his forehead in mild irritation. Just then, the ground began to tremble beneath them. Kormac whisked Cain away from a collapsing wall that toppled down right before their eyes, revealing on the other side what appeared to be a deep crater illuminated by a brilliant blue glow.

"The star!" they gasped.

"Traitors!" a hollow voice boomed further down.

The eerie light of the crater revealed they stood at the top of a short staircase. A large, bony figure clad in a rotting gown stepped out into their view.

"You will pay with your lives for desecrating this ground."

"And we will finish the work begun by the brave men who dispatched you after all your treachery, Leoric!" Kormac shouted.

The figure's flesh had decayed over its skull, a skeletal grin greeting them. At the mention of its name, the figure tilted its head curiously. He appeared to raise a hand towards them, golden rings glistening on spindly fingers.

"Be careful!" Cain cried to them, just as an invisible force seized him in its grasp, dragging him effortlessly to the edge of the crater.

"NO!" Leah shouted.

She leaped forward and began to fire her crossbow at the ghoulish soldiers that had materialized before them. Kormac joined her, swinging his sword indiscriminately, cutting a swath through the decomposed bodies.

Stanislas noticed the King had stopped short of the crater's edge and had not been able to drag Cain into it. _The star,_ he realized. _It has roused them from their tombs, but they are held in thrall to it. It is somehow tampering with their powers._

"Old man!" he yelled over the clatter of weapons. "Hold them off by any means you can!"

Cain had deployed his small arsenal: a combination of the remainder of his blinding luminosity spell and sharp jabs of his small dagger had so far succeeded in keeping two assailants at bay. Stanislas climbed on the parapet of the railing and shot his crossbow at the two undead attacking Cain. He jumped down and reached for his daggers, slinging the crossbow over his back. He sprung up from his crouching stance swiftly and stabbed another soldier, who arched backwards in angry surprise before succumbing to the strike. A larger undead warrior spotted him, effortlessly pushing Leah and Kormac out of his way. Stansilas narrowly missed the swing of his blade.

He knew in an instant that this being was not the result of a curse. This, he felt in every fiber of his being as peered into its black sockets, was a true demon. The enraged creature thrust the tip of its sword at him once more.

Stanislas extended his arm to his side and, without turning, called to Leah, "Give me your sword!"

She placed the pommel heavily in his palm and he raised the blade to eye level. The demon hunched forward and the two circled each other, gauging the best moment to attack.

 _There will be no battle_ , Stanislas thought. _This is a demon, not a soldier who will fight stalwartly._

A bolt of lightning materialized in the air and Stanislas instinctively jumped back as it crashed where he had been standing.

 _Or fight fairly_.

Stanlislas stumbled to his knees, the current coursing hotly over the surface of his flesh. In the near distance he could hear shouting.

 _I am causing a commotion_ , he smiled wanly. _Good_.

The demon marched up to him, sword raised in the air, pointing downwards in preparation to deliver the final blow. Stanislas reached into the small pouch he kept tucked inside his shirt, around his neck. He took a pinch of the sooty powder within- just enough, not daring to waste the bulk of it on a lesser minion such as that- and before the demon could plunge its blade into him, thrust the powder in its face. The move stunned the demon, causing it to stagger backwards, reaching its mangled hands to its face. The dust smoldered and the demon screeched angrily.

Stanislas pierced its chest with the sword in one fell swoop. It clutched at the blade, sputtering furiously.

"Die," Stanislas growled.

He withdrew the sword, but the demon still stood, somewhat dazed, upright and aware. It invested against him once more, striking Stanislas on the shoulder as he attempted to block the sword's blow. Stanislas grit his teeth at the searing pain as he stared at the demon. Its face had been eaten away, corroding where the powder had landed. Stanislas curled his body forward, as if sheltering his wound and sensed the demon loom over him. As it did, Stanislas reeled forward, unsheathing and plunging his two daggers into the demon's cavernous eye sockets. He twisted the blades violently, his hatred stoking his fierceness. Quietly, almost inaudibly, he recited the old incantation, whispering one name slowly, reverently. The demon's cries echoed throughout the chamber. The King's shape wavered across the crater and growled angrily before vanishing.

Kormac and Leah dispatched the remaining soldiers as Stanislas finished battling the demon. The demon's motionless body fell, but Stanislas did not stop his attacks; he struck the corpse again and again, wounds growing wider. He spat and cursed, kicking it violently, until it lay in a contorted heap.

"Enough, Hunter," he heard Cain's voice behind him.

Stanislas stepped back to examine his handiwork: the bloody pulp of a head stared back at him.

_Not enough._

Another surge of rage overcame him and he raised his foot once more. A firm grasp over his healthy shoulder stilled him, though.

"It is done, friend." It was Kormac voice.

"How do we get out of here?" Leah asked Cain.

The old man found himself hesitating between a desire to explore the crater and finding the wall with the exit. He lifted his lantern carefully, placing it before different parts of the wall, observing the flame. At one specific spot, the flame began to flicker.

"Here," he announced proudly. "There is air outside blowing through. Press into the wall in this area so we can open the doorway."

He, Leah, and Kormac all brushed their palms flatly over the wall's surface, pushing against it until a loud snap startled them and hinges groaned loudly. A stairwell led upwards, and up above, the night sky spread out, speckled with icy stars. Stanislas stared at the mangled demon, unwilling to move. He became aware that all eyes were on him. Glancing up he saw the concerned expressions of his companions.

"Hurry," Leah beckoned.

* * *

They arrived at the main gate of New Tristram by daybreak. The militiamen on duty scarcely believed their eyes when they saw that not only had all three who set out the day before returned, but that Deckard Cain was among them. Their whoops of joy pierced the crisp morning air, inviting other citizens to awaken and participate in their cheering. Leah saw, for the first time since the star had fallen, something akin to hope among the villagers. Hands reached out to greet them, bless them, or perhaps confirm they were real. She smiled, shaking hands, returning kind words, trying her best to shield her fragile uncle from the tumult. The haggard party edged its way to the inn, Leah begging an astonished Bron to save his questions for later as they found their way to their rooms at the very back of the building.

Kormac collapsed into his bed, succumbing to exhaustion, his sword clattering loudly over the wooden floor. Leah surveyed the bedroom and tossed a couple logs into the glowing hearth before leading her uncle to his old bed, which Stanislas had been using. She drew back the covers and helped him with his tattered cloak and sullied shoes. She promised him something warm to drink, and when he protested, she assured him she, too, would rest after a cup of tea. She glimpsed Stanislas' skulking form enter the room. The blood had dried over his shirt where his shoulder wound was. Pulling the fabric off the cut would be uncomfortable.

* * *

 

She guided him into her own adjacent room and laid a large bowl of water on the rustic table she often used as a writing desk. She pulled out some clean cloths from a lower drawer. Stanislas waved her away, but she ignored him, marching right up to him and forcefully pushing him down on the edge of her bed. She gingerly dabbed a wet cloth over the shirt, hoping to moisten the area where the sleeve had fused to the raw cut. The cloth gradually turned scarlet as she wiped. She pursed her lips.

_He might need stitches._

"I am getting the healer," she announced softly. Stanislas made as if to protest, but upon seeing Leah's determined face, feebly acquiesced.

"Wait a moment," he uttered quietly, grasping her hands in his. Leah sought out his eyes concernedly.

"What is wrong?"

"One moment," he clasped her small hands tightly, tightly against the darkness that threatened to envelop him, blind him, reforge him.

 _This grief_.

"Stanislas," she whispered after a moment. "You have lost too much blood. Let me fetch the healer."

He nodded.

Leah hesitated to leave him alone, though.

She instinctively turned to the door, calling out for Bron. When he finally stepped into the room sleepily, she entreated him to find the healer.

She sat beside Stanislas for a long time, her hand firmly ensconced between his. She was afraid of looking into his face, but commanded herself to take a glimpse. He stared ahead, stolidly as was his custom, but the moment she turned her head to look at him, he turned too, to meet her gaze. She did not know what to say, what to do at the pain and sadness in his eyes. Stanislas slowly leaned in towards her and she held still. His coarse lips touched the bridge of her nose and then he tentatively brushed his lips against hers, seeking a sign. Leah closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the surge of emotions arising within her.

"I can't," she whispered in a pained voice.

Eyes still downcast, he pulled away from her.

"I know," he agreed.

At the sound of voices and footsteps outside the door, they broke away from each other.

 

* * *

The healer hurriedly walked into the room, addressing her, instantly fussing over his patient. Leah gave the man a wide berth so that he could move freely in the small space and retreated into the room where Kormac snored soundly and her uncle rested in his bed, his eyes wide open.

"Did you forget my tea, child?" he grinned kindly.

Leah shook herself out of a daze and mechanically began to prepare the tea.

"Uncle?" she asked once they began to sip their infusions.

"Yes?"

"What did Stanislas do to the demon at the Cathedral?"

"Ah," he muttered. They could see shadows projected by the candlelight moving around agitatedly in the other room. Stanislas was cursing loudly over the healer's pleas that he hold still.

"He is a Demon Hunter," her uncle replied after a long pause.

Leah sighed.

"Well, yes, Uncle…Did you take too many punches to the head?" she grumbled.

The old man chuckled.

"Demon Hunters are a very resilient breed," Uncle Deckard assured her. "They fight fire with fire, if you will."

"So...they become demonic too?" Leah wondered.

Uncle Deckard shook his head vehemently.

"No…No. They are all too human. Leah…Do you know the story of how the race of man came to be?"

Leah rolled her eyes.

"Not a history lesson. Now is not the time."

"Pssh. You are impatient. Listen. You know we are a race of Angels and Demons, and as such, we carry within us the potential for supreme goodness as well as the ability to wreak enormous suffering. These forces are not so different, my dear. Both compel us to rise up at the darkest of times. Hatred is what is keeping your Demon Hunter friend there alive right now. It is his way of life. He even swore an oath to uphold it. But... sustaining such a thing takes its toll, Leah. He is human, after all, not a demon, and sometimes, he must have those rare moments when he becomes all too aware that all his great hatred, the source of his power, of his courage, comes from nothing more than the loss of great love. And that to muster that courage, to ignite his fury, he must continuously relive that loss."

Leah listened carefully, taking her uncle's words in. Her eyes welled up as she remembered his story about the night he lost his family, his sister's death.

_In a way, he summons the dead to fight the undead._

"Did you notice he used an incantation to confound the demon?" Uncle Deckard asked.

Leah nodded, remembering: the air had crackled with energy, making the hairs on her neck stand.

"He carries a small pouch of some strange powder around his neck. He used it twice," she told him. "Once to draw a warding barrier behind that door we were hiding, right before you found us, and then during his battle with the demon."

"Ah," Uncle Deckard said approvingly. "But you said it is a powder-"

"Yes, a dusty grayish powder."

"Did you know that Demon Hunters never bury their dead in the ground?" he asked.

"No?" Leah wondered.

"Never. They would never risk seeing their dear ones become vessels of demonic forces after death. They cremate corpses."

Leah looked down at her feet. The night he had told her about Rosalie had triggered strange visions in her sleep. He had not wanted to let go of his sister. men in somber attire had to tear him away from her body. They held him back from immolating himself on that funeral pyre.

"That pouch contains the ashes of someone who mattered deeply to him. That, combined with the curse he murmured at the demon was what ultimately defeated it."

"Curse?" Leah marveled.

"It is an old, old spell- a binding curse that reverts the wrong done to an innocent soul back to its perpetrator. The one evoking the curse binds the wrongdoer with human ashes and seals the curse by revealing the name of the one whom they wish to avenge."

"Was that the demon who killed his family?" she gasped, reaching for Cain's arm.

Kormac stirred in his sleep, making an odd, puffing sound that faded off in a volley of angry mumbles. As soon as he settled again, she turned to her uncle.

"Unlikely. That was some sentinel, stationed long ago, probably during the troubles that arose during the time of King Leoric, and forgotten after his defeat. He lay dormant until the star's power stirred them all out of their slumber. But demons are all part of the same thing- the same energy, if you will." Uncle Deckard took a sip of his tea. " And here is the great mystery, Leah- so are angels... And so are we."

They sat in silence for a while, the activity next door also quieting down.

"So I ask you this," Uncle Deckard said suddenly, startling Leah. "What powered that curse?"

Leah's eyes widened.

"His hatred, of course! You saw how he attacked that thing even after it was destroyed."

Uncle Deckard sniffed and Leah braced herself because she knew he had some great revelation up his sleeve.

"Hatred or love? Don't forget— ever—that both forces empower, as well as destroy."

She nodded, speechless, taking the empty cup from his hands. She sat next to Uncle Deckard until she heard his deep breathing. Peering into her room moments later, she saw the healer had left his apprentice, a scrawny young man approximately her age, to watch over Stanislas' sleep. She noticed his shoulder was bandaged, the wrappings stained with yellow ointment to prevent infection. His head was turned away towards the wall and his hand rested lightly over his chest.

"The Master gave him a good sleeping draught to help him rest. It was either that or a good knock to the head, since he wouldn't settle," the apprentice whispered conspiratorially.

Leah gave him an obligatory polite grin. She stared momentarily at Stanislas' hand, the strong, brutish hand, one accustomed to hard labor, and remembered how gently, but firmly it had held hers, as if she would disappear into thin air at any moment, far beyond his reach. He'd sensed his loneliness, his need...But something deep within her prompted her to refuse. What solace could she provide?

She dragged a blanket off a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"I will be with the innkeeper's daughter if you need me."

"You must be exhausted," he said amiably, but curious. "Was it a difficult rescue?"

She smiled wanly.

"I can tell you about it another time. Right now I think I will collapse if I don't sleep for a bit."

The apprentice immediately agreed.

"Come and get me before you leave," she added.

He nodded and she departed.

* * *

Stanislas remained still as he heard Leah's footsteps fade beyond the room. He made out the sounds of the apprentice turning the pages of a book, Kormac's deep breathing, as well as Cain's. His hand clutched the pouch of ashes around his chest.

 _Rosalie, your ashes ran out long ago_ , he thought. _I now carry the consecrated remains of others who died in vain like you. But know that it is your name, my little one, that I say to them before I return them to hell._

He closed his eyes.

_I thought I would know peace once the last of your ashes was used. But I didn't. You won't ever be avenged as long as demons walk this world and I am alive._

_I will never find peace. And nor shall you._

_Forgive me, dearest. Forgive me._


	4. A Wizard in No-Man's Land

Shu Altansarnai reached the gates of New Tristam early in the afternoon, an expression of thinly veiled disgust on her face as she contemplated her fine boots caked in muck and gore.

The militiamen gaped at the slender black-haired woman impractically dressed in flowing silks and golden adornments.

"Well," she asked again, crossing her arms. "Will you grant us passage or not? Are you satisfied we aren't agents of the undead?" she asked haughtily.

Behind her stood two men hauling a large trunk between them. Their attire—and the fact they were shivering—suggested they hailed from more amenable climates than the cold dampness of Khanduras.

"I should check with Captain Rumford," one of the soldiers stated uneasily. "Who should I state seeks aid?"

The young woman tossed her head back and laughed brightly.

"I do not seek aid!" she declared with amusement. "I have come to offer you _my_ aid in light of recent events!" At the poor soldier's discomfited expression she stood straighter and rested her hands over her hips. "If you must, tell your superiors that I am a member of the Altansarnai clan of Xiansai."

The man's lips moved silently in attempt to articulate the elusive name.

"Pardon?"

She was taken aback by the man's ignorance.

"Altansarnai? Haven't you ever?...Wizards?" she probed. "One of the most powerful wizarding families in all of Santuary!" she huffed.

"Are you a witch?" the other guard asked warily.

The wizard scoffed.

"Hardly! Wizards and witches are of a different ilk altogether! I, for one, do not commune with the spirits to negotiate the breadth of my powers!"

She thrust her hand out, a ball of brilliant white electricity sparking over her palm.

"I have mastered the elements and harness the forces of nature themselves to do my bidding!"

The two men exchanged alarmed glances.

 _Witch_ , they both thought.

* * *

"What backwater have we come to?" Shu muttered to herself indignantly, tossing her thick mane off her shoulders. Captain Rumford had been pleasant enough, but he was hardly more enlightened than his soldiers. He said he knew of Xiansai, he stated, but his hesitancy gave her the impression he knew of it in a vague, tenuous way, in the same manner one might acknowledge that something is on a map, without knowing precisely where.

"How do you speak our language so well?" he'd marveled during their brief interview in the small shack they had improvised into a gatehouse.

"I am intelligent," she snapped. The Captain had nodded embarrassedly. "And I was tutored in it from birth; I was expected to study at the Yshari Sanctum. All wizards in my family are, you see," she added more patiently.

"Who are your porters?" the Captain wondered, tilting his head towards the door.

"Servants I hired in Caldeum. They won't be staying on and will be on their way soon. I just needed assistance transporting some essentials," she nodded towards the cumbersome trunk.

"If learning more about the star is your aim, I suggest you speak to the group of adventurers that has been exploring the Cathedral. I plan on seeking them out myself: they returned from a daring but ultimately successful rescue mission only this morning," he declared proudly. "Among their company you will find Deckard Cain. Ever hear of him?" he asked curiously.

Shu's lips curled into a satisfied grin.

 _Finally:_ someone whom she would be able to converse with properly about these mystical matters.

"Of course! The Horadrim elder! I'd be delighted to meet him."

The Captain finally shrugged tiredly.

"I'm afraid you find New Tristam barely able to sustain itself. Our resources have been stretched to their limits as we have taken in refugees from the nearby countryside seeking shelter from the growing number of undead that have arisen as a result of the star's falling on the cathedral. I am pleased to say that since the Demon Hunter's arrival, some crucial roads have been cleared and secured and we are slowly seeing some trade return to the city…but I am afraid that our current state leaves much to be desired," he  apologized.

He couldn't say why it was that he felt the need to explain himself thus. Perhaps it was because his visitor struck him as being so regal, so refined. Perhaps it was because he felt somewhat ashamed of their town in shambles. Or it could be the fact that she stood out as so radiant and lovely in the middle of so much misery and doom—He wondered if it was foolish of him to believe, if even for a moment, that there was hope for all of them? Her mere presence there was a breath of fresh air and it was with a pang of regret that he saw her rise from the rickety chair he'd offered her.

"I appreciate your concern, Captain, but I assure you: I did not come here to enjoy the sights." She glanced around the room in momentary confusion. "Tell me: where would one seek accommodations here?"

"I am not sure if they have any vacancies…but then again, so few can afford to pay these days…Go to the Slaughtered Calf," the Captain suggested. "It is actually where you will find Deckard Cain, his niece Leah, and their allies: a Templar and a Demon Hunter."

She nodded appreciatively as he showed her to the door, but his little revelation had not pleased him.

She was not fond of Demon Hunters.

And she was certainly not fond of any competition for what was surely meant to be her greatest triumph.

 _This star and my fate are interconnected_ , she thought shrewdly, summoning her hapless, awaiting porters with the flick of her hand. _I know this. It was foretold._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Shu is a Chinese name that means "Fair."
> 
> Her surname is actually Mongolian, and it means "Golden Rose."
> 
> Draw your own conclusions as to the significance of that. ;-)


	5. The Rose and the Thorn

            “I’d like your best room,” the unusually dressed woman declared loudly. Bron squinted at her, ignoring all the stares coming from the patrons in the busy tavern.

            “I have one room,” he explained.

            “Is it your best?” she inquired.

            “I don’t understand what you mean. All rooms have a bed and wardrobe. What else could you possibly need?” he puzzled.

            “I want a room with a proper washtub and washroom,” she informed him, taking in the rustic surroundings.

Bron burst into a rumbling belly laugh.

            “So do I!” he teased. “I would be glad to provide you with a bucket and washcloth, though.”

She balked.

            “I require a _washtub_. Surely you do not expect me to perform my daily ablutions standing in a bucket!” she cried out in disgust.

            “I’m afraid I cannot comply with your demands, milady,” Bron stated sarcastically.

            “Where can I find proper accommodations that offer such basic amenities?” She placed her hands over her hips, confrontationally.

            “Nowhere. Not in New Tristam, anyway. This is the only inn still open in town,” he announced tersely.

Bron took a deep breath. He knew how to deal with drunks. He knew how to deal with hagglers. He’d handled his share of rowdy and rude guests. He had never before, though, had to deal with such a snooty, patronizing, condescending—

            “Then…can you see to my needs?” she asked with disarming charm, plunking down a small pouch laden with gold on the bar.

His eyes widened. That was more gold than he had set his eyes on in…

            “Of course,” he assured her amiably. “It may not be luxurious, but I will see to a proper washtub for you!”

            He escorted her towards the small quarters. She followed him in, frowning at the darkness and the unpleasant musty odor emanating from the unused room. She swiped a finger over the writing desk by the entrance and glared at the innkeeper disapprovingly.

            “If you don’t mind waiting at the tavern, I’ll ask my wife and daughter to prepare the room for you! A beverage of your choice will be on the house.”

            “Very well,” she stated curtly. “Do you have any wine?” she wondered.

Bron began to nod before catching himself.

            “Not exactly…Would you like a tankard of good Khandurian ale?”

            “I’d prefer a tankard of donkey piss,” she declared crossly. “You don’t even carry _wine_?”

            “Hellborn scavenging the countryside doesn’t facilitate trade,” he smiled tensely. “But perhaps I could procure you some fine mead,” he thought, already tallying up the number of favors he would be calling in between the tub and the mead.

            “Mead?”

            “Honey…fermented with fruit. You may enjoy it.”

The likelihood of that seemed low, he thought, observing her scrunch up her nose as she poked the mattress.

            “I will try it,” she sighed. “In the meantime, have my trunk brought in!” she ordered, turning around and disappearing into the hallway.

He sighed with resignation as the little bells on her wrists jingled faintly in the background.

            The trunk would undoubtedly be heavy. And she had shooed off her porters earlier. He grimaced thinking of his poor aching back before calling out for his wife and daughter.

 

* * *

 

            Stanislas opened the door to a contrite-looking Bron.

            “I need a favor,” he pleaded.

He explained about the difficult guest he had just agreed to host, and begged for his aid.

            “Thea and Sarah are busy making up the room. I asked Matthew to borrow a washtub and already sent two of my regulars out to help bring it here. I promised them free drinks for the rest of the night. I’ll do the same for you and Kormac if you’d be so kind to help me with the trunk—” he explained hurriedly, tossing a clean dishtowel over his shoulder. “I can’t leave the bar unattended. I’m taking a hit as it is tonight with all the free drinks I am giving away…”

            “Is it worth all the trouble?” Stanislas wondered crossly. “I’ve never seen you bend backwards for anyone!” he scolded.

            “Ah. It is,” he assured him, without providing further details.

He and Kormac found the offending trunk left inconveniently by the wall right before the inn’s hallway turned towards the tavern. Both men leaned down to seize a handle, but when they attempted to haul it off the ground, Stanislas cried out in pain.

            “Perhaps you should lift using your uninjured arm,” Kormac pointed out.

Stanislas scowled.

            “Who travels like this?”

He prodded the trunk with the tip of his boot.

            “It won’t even budge! What a fool to bother transporting these many items at a time like this!”

            “Come,” Kormac encouraged him. “Let us be done with this and earn our free drinks.”

Stanislas grimaced and gripped the handle once again, hefting up the trunk with a grunt.

 

* * *

 

            Shu claimed a plush upholstered chair by the fire and swirled her beverage around the goblet. She eyed it suspiciously: the drink possessed a pale yellow hue, vaguely reminiscent of urine. A sweet and spicy odor emanated from it and she wondered, given the lax standards of cleanliness and service at that establishment, if she’d been offered expired spirits…

            _Heaven knows this place is already filled with ‘expired spirits_ ,’ she smirked to herself.

She sensed a presence standing directly beside her, and raised her gaze up past a worn black tunic and followed up all the way to a glaring pair of grey eyes peering down at her from a stern face.

            “That’s my chair,” he stated coolly.

 _The Demon Hunter_.

She had met several over the course of her adventurous life. All of them brooding and moody. Conversations with any of their ilk had proven to be futile and frustrating endeavors. Her colleagues back in Caldeum found them mysterious and secretive, but Shu had decided they were just a pack of socially maladroit ruffians.

            “It’s mine now,” she smiled sweetly.

She noticed a flash of surprise register in his eyes.

            “You are the Demon Hunter, aren’t you?” she quickly added, before he retorted. “I wish to speak to you and your companions. I have a proposal that will be of your interest,” she added in a lower voice. “Have a seat and let us talk.”

She indicated the stool where she had been resting her feet.

* * *

 

            A wizard from Xiansai, he recognized. He’d seen them on occasion during different stops in Caldeum. They were immediately recognizable mostly for their flamboyant attire. That was saying something, if one took into account the buffoonery that passed for fashion in Caldeum.

            This particular wizard wore a delicate tiara adorned with tiny spokes, from which dangled small golden orbs encrusted with twinkling gemstones. In front, her hair had been artfully arranged in two sections fastened off with slim gold cuffs, and the rest flowed down loosely past her shoulders, almost down to her waist. She wore a gauzy top: some complicated crisscrossed crimson chiffon that defined rather than concealed her shapely bosom. The top did not even attempt to cover her midriff. Her matching silky and airy skirt, which reminded him of a tattered flag, displayed her muscular legs, which were outfitted almost up to her knees with the most unreasonable curl toed boots.

He drew a deep breath and dragged the stool off to the opposite side of the hearth.

            “Very well. Speak.”

She took a sip of the mead to disguise her irritation. It wasn’t half as bad as she expected, but she was too irked to appreciate it at that point.

            “It is customary among civilized people to introduce themselves before engaging in a conversation, don’t you think?”

At this he couldn’t help but smirk.

            “Hmm. I don’t suppose I could be considered what you’d call ‘civilized,’” he offered with sarcastic obsequiousness.

            “No, probably not,” she agreed, matching his sarcasm. “Very little south of Xiansai is, I’m afraid.”

She had, he noted, a very expressive gaze: somewhat irreverent, he decided, her long lashes framing dark brown eyes.

            “I am Shu of the Altansarnai, one of the Great Wizarding Families of the Xian,” she briefly nodded.

            She stared at him expectantly. When he said nothing and only stared at her with a blank expression, she finally huffed disapprovingly.

            “And you are…?” she prompted him.

            “Someone who is growing impatient. State your business or quit wasting my time,” he demanded with rising testiness.

            “ _Yěshòu_ ,” she mumbled crossly. “I have come here to offer you my aid—” she began.

He raised his hand before she could proceed.

            “No.”

She furrowed her brow.

            “You did not even let me finish!”

            “Let me save you some time and perhaps the unpleasant trip. We do not need your aid,” he stated bluntly.

            “But I am a powerful wizard—”

            “And I have a really nice crossbow. Not interested.”

He began to rise from the stool.

            “I am sure there are plenty of fools who believe the star will offer them perfect opportunities for wisdom and wealth and glory…But I advise you not to attempt any scavenging excursions on your own. The cathedral houses tremendous evil. It’s a dangerous, inhospitable place—”

            “Have you seen it?” she wondered, leaning closer. Her skin exuded the heady perfume of tuberose. “The star?”

He was not disposed to answer her inquiry.

            “Fine. If you do not wish to heed my warning, suit yourself. When you are crowded by the hellborn horrors that finally drag you into a crypt, don’t blame me. Your curiosity does not warrant the peril.”

            “And yet, you will risk returning,” she stated shrewdly.

            “What makes you think that I would—”

            “Spare me the heroic speech. I am hardly incompetent, as you presume. You are as curious as I am about that star. Could it be a heavenly sign to the people of Sanctuary? Or yet another menace? Why can’t we join forces and find out together?” she proposed.

            “And what do you want in exchange?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

            “Forgive me, but I do not recall your being granted ownership of the star by any authority whatsoever. I was not asking for your permission,” she finally snapped. “Let me make this clear: I am going to seek out the fallen star, with your blessing or otherwise. And I will find it.”

            “And then what? Become the most powerful wizard in all of Sanctuary?” he mocked. “You magic-wielders are so tiresomely predictable.”

            “And you think you are what? Refreshingly insolent and disrespectful? Spare me, Demon Hunter. My business is mine alone, but if you must know, according to all auguries and portents since my birth, my destiny is tied to the arrival of that star,” she explained. “And I have come to New Tristam to understand why.” _It contains the answer to what I may yet become_ , she thought wistfully, a yawning emptiness encroaching on her. _I need to know. And this here is no gatekeeper I care to recognize_.

            “You don’t appear to understand that the star has not fallen in some quaint garden. You cannot expect to simply saunter up to it and be…enlightened. For all I know, this star is a new act of war. It has disturbed the earth, caused dormant evil to stir once more, and threatens to engulf New Tristam…Perhaps spread even further. I am not interested in your research endeavor. You are better off in the spires of the Yshari Sanctum sticking your nose in a book rather than in my affairs!”

She sat up in the chair, a profound dislike for the Demon Hunter overpowering her.

            “Perhaps you should read a few books yourself to expand your horizons: but worry not, I will speak slowly and use small words: You and I have a common goal. We both wish to determine the nature of this star. If it is benevolent, then we may make use of it. If it is not, we can join forces against it. I do not see why you are so bent on keeping me from lending your party support.”

He smarted from her condescension.

            “Since we are using small words, allow me to offer you a few choice ones: No. Go home. And fu—”

            “Stanislas!” the warm, croaky voice interjected behind them. “Won’t you introduce me to your new companion!”

Stanislas pressed his lips together at the sound of his name. _Timing, Cain. Timing._

            “Stanislas!” she mused impishly. “Hmm…No wonder you didn’t want to tell me,” she completed with a maddeningly derisive giggle.

            “I was just leaving,” he stated gloomily. “You are welcome to take my place, old man.”

With that, Stanislas rose and marched angrily past Kormac, Leah, Bron and the few lingering tavern patrons.

            “I am Deckard Cain,” the aged man introduced himself simply.

At that, the wizard rose from the chair, graciously grasping his hand.

            “I am honored. My name is Shu Altansarnai, of Xiansai,” she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. “I have traveled from Caldeum to investigate this star. It is a rare privilege to meet one of the remaining Horadrim,” she curtseyed formally. “I have come here seeking to aid you and yours in understanding what this star means.”

            “Ah,” he lamented shakily, surprised by her pageantry. “I’m afraid I have no answers to afford you. I cannot ascertain the nature of this star, despite the fact I was thrust into such close proximity to it. But I can tell you that it has reawakened unspeakable evil. Have you ever heard speak of Leoric, the Mad King?”

            “Yes! I am well versed on the history of the unfortunate king!”

She indicated her chair, urging Cain to be seated. He tried to wave her off by seizing the bench, but she insisted, guiding him towards the soft chair.

            “Please sit. In Xiansai there is a saying about our revered elders: “The home with its own elder has indeed a worthy adornment.” She helped him into the chair gently and then pulled the bench closer to him so they could speak.

            “King Leoric…He is now the Skeleton King and he is guarding the depths of the Cathedral,” he warned Shu as he settled comfortably.

            “A lich?” she inquired, intrigued. _Such dark magics._

Cain smiled, pleased that he had someone other than Leah, who listened to him more out of respect, with whom to discuss those arcane topics.

            “Yes…In a matter of speaking, a lich is what he has become.”

She rubbed her fingers, a faint spark of electricity leaping forth between them.

            “I’ve never fought a true lich before,” she grinned slyly. “How would you suggest I go about it? I’d imagine a powerful electrical field to disrupt any atmospheric effects…” she proposed.

Cain was aged—he upheld no delusions about his physical decay and accepted his inevitable fate placidly. The scope of his emotions towards most people those days had solidified into a kindly, grandfatherly act he dispensed generously and sincerely. But watching the clever wizard dazzle him with her knowledge and daring sparked a memory, an echo, for the briefest moment…It was an ephemeral longing that made him wish he was a younger man again.


	6. Compromise

“I’m not going,” Leah stated decisively.

            “Did your uncle put you up to this?” Stanislas pointed at her, upset.

            “No!” she cried.

            “Then get your crossbow. Let’s go!”

Kormac waited by the door. Daylight hadn’t even broken yet.

            “This is why I am not going!” Leah grumbled. “How dare you expect me to come along after the way you yelled at me?”

Stanislas grimaced.

            “You rallied, didn’t you?”

Leah scoffed.

            “You would have left me to be dragged away by monsters simply because I had run out of ammunition! You forbade me from seeking cover beside Kormac. Goodness, if only I had died: then you _really_ would have taught me a lesson!” she accused.

Stanislas peered down, uneasily.

            “Look, those things…I said them all in the heat of the moment. You can’t believe for one second I would have let anything bad happen to you! But…” he began, raising his eyes back to her. “You really must be better prepared. Running out of ammunition like that…and not having any other means of defense…” he scolded her mildly.

            “I certainly learned my lesson,” she nodded.

            “Good,” he nodded. “We’ll be waiting outside.”

            “The lesson is: I’m not going with you!” She poked his chest with the tip of her finger.

            “Leah, you are being difficult. We need your help! While Kormac battles in the front lines and I keep us from being swarmed, we need you to—”

            “Knit you some socks? Make you some lunch?” she challenged.

            “No!” he stated in bewilderment. Leah was definitely strong-willed, he knew, but he’d never seen her behave so…feistily. “I was going to say: be on the lookout for any stray incoming threats!”

            “No,” she informed him decisively.

            “Why?” he groaned in frustration. That was going to set them back and slow them down. “Why are you doing this? You know we need you to come. Please!” The request came across more like a resentful order.

Leah’s eyes shifted sideways, pensively.

            “If I come can I lay down some ground rules?”

Stanislas breathed in deeply. _Patience_.

            “What are they?” he asked tersely.

            “First: not a word from you on my skills, abilities, or preparedness!”

            “Fine!” he agreed. “I will say nothing!” _Get mauled by demons!_ _See if I care!_ he wanted to add.

            “Second!” she continued, surprising him. “You will consult the members of your party and consider their suggestions and advice before making any decisions!”

            “If you’d like to spend the entire day squabbling in the courtyard of the cathedral arguing about which entrance to—”

            “Yes or no?” Leah interrupted brusquely.

            “All right!” he snapped, rolling his eyes and tossing his hands up.

            “Third!” she began. He groaned audibly. “I will go only if Shu comes with us.”

His eyes widened in horrified stupefaction.

            “What? Absolutely not!”

            “Then we have nothing else to say to each other,” Leah turned around, disappearing down the hallway.

He panicked in the few seconds he had before she could barricade herself behind the bedroom door.

            “Very well,” he exhaled resignedly. “Tell the witch to come with us, but tell her to hurry. We would like to leave in five minutes, not five hours!”

The words had barely crossed his lips when he noticed Leah re-emerge at the doorway followed by none other than Shu.

            “Good morning, _Yěshòu_ ,” she stated cheerfully. “Although I am delighted to have been invited, I should point out to you that I am no _witch_. I am a _wizard_. I know you haven’t been properly versed on such esoteric concepts, but witches consort with spirits, making them more susceptible to corruption, while wizards manipulate the primal, raw energies of—”

            “Oh, someone kill me now!” he groaned.

            “Good morning, Kormac,” she smiled appealingly to the Templar.

            “Good morning Shu,” he smiled back bashfully. “Did you sleep well?”

            “Oh, never better! But look at you! So mighty in your armor!” she observed, clenching her fist triumphantly at him.

Kormac, even in the dimness of the room, appeared to blush deeply.

            “Well, I…that…It’s…” he babbled foolishly. He finally cleared his throat. “You look…quite magnificent yourself!” he offered.

Stanislas cast Kormac a disapproving scowl.

            _Traitor_.

            In fact, the wizard was attired in a manner that made Stanislas think she was better equipped to enjoy a promenade than engage in combat. She wore clothes similar to the ones from the previous evening, except her new garments were a rich shade of green.

            “Yes, the undead will be _most_ impressed,” Stanislas clasped his hands together, mockingly.

            “Good! I am pleased to offer the poor souls some consolation…and a little variation on the lugubrious fare they’ve grown accustomed to,” she indicated his black clothes reproachfully. “Shall we go forth?” she proposed eagerly. “As much as I’d like to stay here and give you fashion pointers, even I know a lost cause when I see one!” she teased, breezing past him towards the door. “Leah, I can enchant your arrows so that their tips explode once they hit a target,” she explained, flanked by her admiring duo.

            “You mentioned last night you had an oil that would burn the flesh of the undead?” Kormac wondered excitedly.

            “Yes…I brought it with me! I’d be happy to rub the oil over your sword!” she offered.

Stanislas wondered if she noticed the effect her words had on the poor Templar: the man had staggered slightly to the side before exiting the inn.

            “Well played,” he conceded, watching Shu lead their little cortege towards the main square together. “But you don’t fool me one bit,” he muttered. _I am on to your wiles_ , he thought crossly, following in their wake.

* * *

 

            “Where are we headed to?” Kormac asked.

            “Back to the Cathedral,” Stanislas retorted morosely. “We have to finish off the Skeleton King if we wish to reach the crater. Whatever is at the bottom of that crater is causing the undead to rise, and in turn the undead are blocking our passage.”

            “We just go back down the passage we escaped from the other night then!” Kormac reasoned.

            “We can’t,” Leah explained. “Uncle Deckard explained it to Shu and me last night,” she informed them. “The entrance is inaccessible from the _outside_. He said we should speak to Haedrig—my uncle is convinced he knows information that could aid us.”

            “Who is this Haedrig?” Shu wondered.

            “He’s New Tristam’s blacksmith. Or has been, for the past couple of years.”

            “How amusing! I’ve never had any use for a blacksmith before!” she quipped.

Stanislas cast Shu a peeved glance. Apparently a _very_ lively conversation had taken place after he’d left her company the previous night. She had likely taken the opportunity to ingratiate herself to the others then. She had probably humored the old man’s propensity to talk about occult matters, cast a few vapid compliments Kormac’s way, and probably promised Leah some charms or magical items tucked away in that cumbersome trunk of hers. It really took very little to get in their good graces. Shu was turning out to be every bit the conniving, self-serving, presumptuous wizard he suspected her of being. He had been the one to risk his life saving Cain— and who was she? A common opportunist.

She must have sensed him glaring, for she turned and met his gaze squarely. Upon meeting his critical expression, she inhaled deeply and stood taller, facing him back defiantly.

Stanislas finally looked away. It was pointless to become so agitated over her. She was all bluster: he had the impression she would crumple at the first rush of undead setting out to ambush them. Her head was probably filled with the bravado of heroes from dusty tomes housed at the Yshari. He examined her as they wandered towards the town’s gloomy square: her glossy black hair had been fastened in a high pony tail she tossed to and fro as she spoke and turned her head. She wore the ridiculous curl-toed boots again and whatever efforts she was making to convince the others she was in armor were ludicrous. Her flimsy jewel-toned skirt was strategically slit at the sides to reveal her thighs; a belt of chains and medallions secured the front and back panels of the garment in place as she paraded through town causing a small commotion, especially among the younger men in the militia.

            _Close your mouths,_ _fools_ , he thought disdainfully, noticing how their eyes lingered on the wizard’s muscular, toned legs as she passed.

His eyes trailed after the graceful figure: such a slender waist… and those rounded hips undulating rhythmically before him as she walked.

            He’d met a few women like her. They, too, were beautiful, knew it, and expected the men surrounding them to worship them for it. If he had to guess, he’d imagine she was probably demanding and spoiled in bed. Despite the lovely façade, women like her also tended to be surprisingly fragile. Youth and beauty defined them, but both qualities were relative and fleeting. Once he looked past the lovely veneer, he usually found very little, except for staggering insecurity and neediness. Luckily, he thought, he never had to deal with such complications because women did not think of Demon Hunters as much more than a dare, a novelty, or a thrill. He never had to stick around beyond a pleasant night or two. That suited him fine—he craved physical contact, he needed sex, but only as a release, an escape…

            He cleared his throat, annoyed at himself for slipping into such thoughts.

            _Blasted witch._


	7. The Blacksmith

           

"He said that if anyone would know, it would be you," Leah attempted to reason with the burly and sullen blacksmith. "Can you think of anything?" she pleaded as the others looked on patiently, awaiting in the background.

The blacksmith said nothing. He listened as he went about his tasks, starting up a fire beneath his forge. He appeared distracted, troubled, Stanislas gathered. A glimpse past the door of the cottage facing his work area revealed a state of disarray: dirty dishes stacked on a table, clothes piled on the ground, a few swords, spears, and polearms leaning against the walls haphazardly.

"I don't know," Haedrig uttered at last in his thick burr. "I don't know what your uncle thinks I know. Perhaps he's gotten me confused with my father," he stated agitatedly.

Leah cast them all a helpless glance.

"We could try to make our way down again through the Cathedral," she offered tentatively.

Kormac frowned.

"That'll take all day," he lamented. "We could really use a shortcut."

"It is what it is." Stanislas uncrossed his arms and adjusted his crossbow's strap over his shoulder. "We should get moving."

"Besides, I can help, Kormac!" Shu stated reassuringly. "My spells can strike many at once," she grinned.

Stanislas felt himself suppressing the snarl curling over his lip.

At the mention of spells, Haedrig tossed the log he'd been aiming at the fire on the ground silently.

"Are you the witch everyone's been talking about?"

"I don't mind people talking about me, but they should at least understand that I am not a—"

"Why do you ask?" Stanislas wondered shrewdly. It was the first time the smith had paid them any heed.

"Can you perform magic?" Haedrig insisted, wiping his large hands over his smith's apron.

Shu blinked a few times, disconcerted.

"I can…No spirit conjuring, if that's what you mean. I draw my power from nature, from the elements and—"

"Can you perform healing spells?" he persisted, stepping towards her, growing more distraught.

Shu's brow furrowed.

"I know many healing potion recipes," she explained. "But my magic isn't of that kind."

Haedrig dragged his hand over his face, tiredly.

"Let me put it this way then: can you undo magic? Curses?"

Shu puzzled.

"I'm not quite sure I understand…"

Stanislas surveyed the messy cottage room nearby. He noticed Leah's eyes had been searching for something as well.

"Haedrig…Where's Mira?"

The smith's expression clouded.

"She was tending to a group of refugees."

His fist shot out, striking the bricks on the side of his forge.

"One of them must have brought in the plague. They all swore they had fled before the undead had reached their homes, but there was among them a refugee who was unwell: shivering, boils on his skin, eyes rolling into his sockets. They kept insisting it was a fever, begged for shelter…"

He glanced away.

"Unfortunate soul passed before night, but not before erupting from his flesh as one of those undead creatures. Wasn't hard to knock him into the ground, but his pustules had burst and both Liam and Trent came down with the illness after fighting a couple of them. Rumford has quarantined everyone: the sick, the guards, and the caretakers in the basement of the mayor's house," he revealed gravely. "Mira was able to slip me a note through the casement, and she said the refugees have been dropping like flies. She and Mavis are doing what they can, but in such close quarters, in such proximity…They are trying to keep the afflicted apart from the others, but suspect it is too late to save anyone."

"Haedrig…" Leah uttered with pained sympathy.

He did not meet her eyes.

"For all I know, Rumford locked them away to die. But Mira," he began, his tone suddenly hopeful, "she said she hasn't shown any of the symptoms the others have. Perhaps there is still time to get her out of there!"

They all exchanged uneasy glances.

"If there is a chance, then we should try to help," Shu stated brashly.

"And contaminate the entire town?" Stanislas snapped.

"We should at least understand the situation before making a decision!" Shu argued. "You place too much trust in Rumford. Your Captain is nothing more than a farmer equipped with a big sword!"

Stanislas bristled at her contemptuous comment. He'd once been a farmer, too.

"I suppose people can't grow or adapt to circumstances?" he intoned with irritation.

Shu drew a deep breath.

"That's not what I am saying. Of course they can. But it's not like he decided one day, of his own volition, to put down the plow and become Captain of New Tristam's militia, because—by the glory of Zakarum!—that was his heart's true calling!" she explained in a strained tone. "The man is ill-prepared for certain contingencies. I don't blame him. But it's the reality!"

The Demon Hunter and the Wizard faced each other contemptuously, exchanging a mutually shared scorn.

"Haedrig…we can verify what is happening…but you must be prepared…for the worse," Leah added as gently as she could.

For the first time, they saw the blacksmith's stoic façade crack.

"Mira…she has been through worse…And she…You know her, Leah!" he pleaded. "She has power. She will know how to protect herself," he reasoned, as if trying to convince himself most of all.

Shu frowned. A glance at the Demon Hunter revealed an equally concerned expression on his face. If Mira did have power, it wasn't so much that she had the ability to stave off the contagion, but more the threat that she would prove a formidable foe if afflicted with the deadly illness.

"Let's go," the Demon Hunter declared at last.

* * *

The basement entrance was guarded by two sentinels who stood as far away as they possibly could from the door.

"Halt!" they cried out as their group walked towards them.

"We cannot allow anyone in: Captain's orders!" one of them hastily added.

"This quarantine is a foolish, pointless thing to do! There is no saving those who have contracted the plague! The right thing to do is to put those who have it out of their misery as quickly and humanely as possible, before their minds have slipped away completely!" Leah argued.

"We have orders," one of the men threatened, unsheathing his sword.

"Here: I'll give you a new one," Stanislas replied, sliding his crossbow forward. "Step out of my way."

The men hesitated for only a moment, staring at the crossbow aiming at them, before stepping aside.

* * *

The first thing Shu noticed was how the air became immediately cooler as they descended into the dank basement. It was another abode within the main house, complete with rooms locked behind heavy doors and narrow corridors. The stones felt damp against her fingertips as she touched her way forward in the dim passageway. Another eerie detail Shu noticed: how silent everything around them was.

"Mira!" Haedrig called out.

Lights ahead flickered and a door creaked open heavily on its hinges.

"Who comes?" someone weakly inquired.

Shu could hear water dribbling somewhere nearby. One drop…two drops…They all waited expectantly to proceed.

"It's Haedrig. Where is Mira?"

"Inside," the voice beckoned. "Come."

Other figures crowded the door, peering out, trying to make out who approached their quarantined quarters.

Stanislas let out a low growl.

"Those aren't humans anymore," he warned, aiming his crossbow.

Haedrig looked back at them, wincing.

"Mira may have barricaded herself."

Shu caught Leah exchanging uneasy glances with Kormac. She knew Stanislas was right: the air was heavy, dense. Once the door opened fully, an overpowering stench of decay wafted out into the corridor.

"Burning Hells," Kormac hissed, turning his head away.

The sharp rushing whoosh of an arrow pierced the air as it burst forth into the chest of the figure holding the door open.

The next moment devolved into chaos, as both Stanislas and Kormac charged into the room, followed closely by Leah and Haedrig, who wielded his smithing hammer. Shrill cries erupted all around them and a green miasmic cloud emanated from the agitated undead. The light from the lanterns flashed brightly against the steel and iron weapons.

"My friends…I'm sorry," Haedrig lamented again and again as he hefted up the handle of his hammer to strike yet another hapless plague-afflicted creature.

"Apologies won't lay them to rest, blacksmith! Swing your bloody hammer!" Kormac shouted.

Shu observed everything wide-eyed. She had met her share of undead, especially traveling through Khanduras over the last few days…but she had always thought of her assailants as anything but human. Those beings, hobbling towards them, in both rage and desperate supplication, had barely shed the vestiges of their humanity.

"Get out of the way if you aren't fighting!" Stanislas barked, pushing her aside brusquely as he followed Haedrig towards a back room.

"Mira!" the smith cried.

Shu stood aside with the others gazing upon the frail figure of a woman clad in a simple work dress, her hands covering her face.

 _Is it fear…or shame?_ Shu wondered, her heart sinking as she noticed that all around the woman corpses rose and lunged towards them. The likelihood she had managed to avoid contagion was next to none. Haedrig and the others charged the creatures, striking them down swiftly before they gained strength and grew more unruly. Shu could not stop staring at the woman at the center of the room, her shoulders trembling, her skin so pale in the firelight.

"Is she?..." someone asked.

"It's too late," Stanislas announced.

Shu's head turned instinctively to Haedrig. The blacksmith's expression hardened as he seized his hammer.

"Mira, my love…Forgive me," he uttered.

At his words, the woman raised her head and sought Haedrig among their party. Shu saw in her eyes a haunting sadness and resignation. He stepped forward, unsure.

"Not another step," Stanislas warned.

The woman blinked slowly and for a short instant, they locked gazes, an unspoken understanding passing between them. She suddenly pitched slightly to the right. As Haedrig instinctively began to rush forth to catch her, Kormac's arm shot out, seizing him by the shoulder.

"Don't!" he yelled.

Just then Mira cried out in a spasm of pain.

"Haedrig!" she groaned, "Help me!" Her plea was punctuated with a gruesome regurgitation of viscous bile. Before their eyes they watched Mira Eamon transform into a ghoulish Wretched Mother.

 _She has power_ , Shu remembered Haedrig telling them earlier. All backed away in stupefaction. Only Haedrig remained steadfast, raising his hammer.

"I will help you," Shu offered, hurrying to his side, clapping her hands together, the air tingling, charged, before she splayed her hands forth and an electrical charge shot from her palms. The brilliant white current enveloped the Wretched Mother, causing the monster to convulse grotesquely before collapsing into a heap of charred flesh on the ground.

It was over.

Haedrig dropped his arms, his hammer hanging from his fist.

"I couldn't have done this without you," he began slowly. "I am in your debt," he murmured, his eyes affixed on the corpse huddled over the floor.

* * *

After a few moments of silence, Stanislas spoke up once more.

"We should burn the corpses," he stated somberly. "We don't need any of them coming back to life and spreading anymore of this misery."

He peered around the devastation in the room: bodies littering the dirty pallets, frozen gazes affixed to the ceiling, mouths contorted in gruesome grimaces. He rested his gaze upon the shape of Mira Eamon before allowing himself to steal a surreptitious glance towards Shu.

For a moment he believed she had lost her nerve, that she was living up to every expectation of his: she was merely a pampered, overconfident wizard whose exploits were confined to civilized sparring matches or parlor tricks. He hadn't expected her to rush forward when they had all instinctively stepped back, and finished off the job so quickly…and efficiently. He'd been blinded by the electrical charge, its brightness piercing and its glow hot. It had been violent and strong.

 _I'll have to keep a watch on this one. Not sure what her intent is yet, but she appears to be quite powerful, after all_ , he cautioned himself.


	8. The Cure for Solitude

"Give me something to do," Haegrid begged Stanislas. "Or I will lose my sodding mind."

It was late in the evening—it had taken the entire day to cleanse and burn all the corpses and potentially contaminated items: bedrolls, blankets, clothes, and even furniture. A blazing fire sprung from the town's main square, the skeleton of broken chairs and upturned table legs outlined in the flickering flames. The smoke coursed up, dark and wispy, its warmth a small consolation for the downtrodden villagers.

They had followed Leah back to the blacksmith's cottage after they emptied the cellars. Stanislas could not articulate why they had all been compelled to remain together once they had finished their ordeal. Leah, he could understand. She and Cain had befriended Haegrid and Mira—she spoke to Haegrid with the familiarity of a friend.

"Come back to the inn with us. You need to eat something."

Haegrid had said very little the entire day. Instead, Stansilas noted, he appeared to be focused on every task given. He moved with an intense, nervous energy, evincing a restlessness that made him uncomfortable.

"How about you? Does your armor need repairs?" the smith turned and addressed Kormac.

"Haegrid," Leah uttered in a softer tone. "You need to rest. It has been a trying day and you'll need your strength. If you'd like, I'll come back tomorrow and help you with—"

"No need," he interrupted her briskly. "No need for any of that."

They all fell into a pained, heavy silence.

Stanislas knew grief well. He understood that grief manifested itself in strange ways. He saw it in Haegrid's trembling hands as he gripped the back of his chair when he spoke to them. He saw it in his vacant stares. The cottage still breathed of the close, settled domesticity with Mira: a small clay vase filled with dry, crackled wild flowers, the crumpled needlepoint dishtowel on the ground, and two modest place settings that had been mindlessly shoved to the corner of the kitchen table: all vestiges of a life gradually expiring. He could tell the man's mind was racing, desperately trying to outrun what would inevitably snatch him: the unfamiliar future he would be treading... by himself. Stanislas was seized by the impulse to leave immediately; the man's stoic sorrow hinted at its terrible depth, its profound pain. He had recognized it much like one recognizes the symptoms of a shared ailment.

 _Miserable day. I need a drink_ , Stanislas decided, rising. "I could use some armor. Do you have any iron?" he asked, heading towards the door.

Haegrid blinked a few times and glanced around the unraveled room.

"Aye…" he said slowly. "I believe I may have some in my shop."

"Can you make me a light but strong chainmail shirt?" Stanislas wondered, pausing at the entrance.

Haegrid seemed to be searching inside his mind.

"I have some rings…not enough. I would have to make more…"

"Just for my chest," Stanislas explained. "My arms need to have a free range of motion."

The smith nodded, taking a deep breath. The Demon Hunter surveyed the room, filled with dour faces.

"Good night," he bid them all before leaving.

Haegrid appeared somewhat revived.

"I am headed to my shop," he announced.

"Are you sure you won't go back to the inn with us?" Leah asked once more.

"No. I have to…I have work to do."

He hastily tied on his apron, patting down his pockets, pulling out a small handful of rivet ends. When he moved towards the door, they all took it as their cue to leave, as well. Haegrid held the door open as they stepped out into the street. Shu was the last one out, but just as the smith began to lock the door, she turned suddenly.

"Oh, I think I forgot something inside!"

Leah and Kormac halted further ahead, turning back expectantly.

"Go ahead," she waved them off. "I'll catch up eventually," she assured them as she reentered the cottage.

She pretended to search beneath the table and chairs while Haegrid stood silently by the door. Once she was certain Leah and Kormac had proceeded towards the inn without her, she raised her head and examined the smith.

"Come here," she summoned him with a quick wave of her fingers. "I have something for you."

Haegrid startled.

"What is it?" he wondered, his brow furrowing.

"Close the door," she ordered him.

As he hesitated, she reached into a pouch hanging off her jeweled belt, pulling out a sooty, heavily creased sheet of parchment. The smith puzzled, wary of either the parchment sheet or perhaps even her…She wasn't sure.

"It is a letter," she explained. "I came across it while we were cleaning out the cellar. I hid it away because the others were burning everything left and right indiscriminately…but this here is safe, you see. You will have to forgive me for reading it: it is for you."

Haegrid raised his eyes, alarmed at her words.

" From Mira," she whispered kindly, as she passed him the letter.

* * *

_My dearest Haedrig,_

_Do not feel despair, my love. You did everything you could. Our time together meant more than words can say, but in the end fate is a cruel mistress. Your strength is needed to end the horrors that beset this world. My final wish is that you find your path._

_Love always,_

_Mira_

Shu had found the letter in a small box filled with writing tools. It had been stowed away with care and Shu realized, as her eyes perused the letter, that Mira had probably foreseen her own death. Shu had crumpled it up quickly, aware that she was not alone, and that she was expected to simply carry and hurtle everything she found into the flames.

She had stuffed the parchment hastily in her pouch, remembering disdainfully of how fearful and panicked Captain Rumford's men had been when they entered the cellar afterwards.

 _Not everything touched by corruption ends up corrupted_ , she frowned.

It held true for the letter… _And apparently, for love, as well_ , she mused, a twinge of envy surfacing deep inside her. It was a terrible, inappropriate thing to be resentful of the dead, she knew. And Haegrid's sorrow was tangible, even more poignant for his denial of it.

But Mira had known something she hadn't.

As she walked back to the inn, walking past the faint lanterns of the gloomy town, she wondered briefly if anyone would ever love her that way: so devotedly and completely.

For a moment, a memory flickered across her mind's eye:

 _A courtyard covered in plum blossoms, her mother's sad eyes trailing after her father, his regal robes brushing over the polished slabs of fine wood_ _softly_ _._

 _"_ _Mā," she called out. "Mā!"_

_And the beautiful woman turned back to look at her, so elegant and soft spoken._

_"_ _Your father is pleased, Qin ai de."_

_Her mother was doe-eyed, but the warmth of those eyes were not meant for her._

_Qin ai de, her mother called her. Qin ai de: dear. But that doe-eyed gaze ran through her, never truly beholding her._

_She was nothing more than an instrument in her mother's arsenal of charms in that endless battle to hold Lord Altansarnai's ever-wandering, mercurial affections._

_"_ _Mā" she had wailed demandingly, tugging at her mother's sleeve._

Over the years her many accomplishments had brought her admiration, praise, and renown among the wizarding clans of Xiansai. She was a force to be reckoned with, a true daughter and heiress of the great Altansarnai clan: beautiful, educated, and powerful, she knew.

But she was alone. Always alone.

* * *

A few lost souls littered the sparse tavern in the inn despite the late hour. Leah and Kormac occupied a table. Two tankards of ale sat before them. They gestured to Shu as she arrived, inviting her to sit with them. One glance towards the chair by the fire revealed a pair of long legs clad in heavy black boots stretched out over a stool. Stanislas held a flask he tipped over his lips with regular frequency, his eyes never veering away from the fireplace. She passed him by without a word and turned to Bron, who appeared to be in conversation with a patron, commiserating sympathetically, his head bobbing back and forth in some kind of feeble agreement.

She wanted to head straight for her room, to be left in peace while her unpleasant memories and thoughts needled at her. When she got into one of those moods, few things restored her spirits. Drink only dulled her senses, she found, avoiding overindulging so as not to affect her abilities. Besides, Bron had nothing she would consider imbibing to soothe herself.

She was about to offer Leah some excuses when her eyes landed on Kormac. She contemplated the Templar's rugged face, his thick dark hair shorn in traditional military style, and she smiled faintly.

Yes, few things restored her spirits—and a night of pleasure was something she could allow herself to overindulge in without great consequence.

* * *

Shu liked her men strong, burly, with solid muscles she could knead and run her hands over. She preferred soldiers and warriors, but had dallied with the occasional mercenary for hire. She favored men who demonstrated strength in battle, who easily hefted mighty swords and axes. Few luxuries rivaled being completely enveloped by bulky arms against a bare, brawny chest. It gave her a thrill to think that those men's hands could crush and destroy with ease, but that they trembled with desire instead as they coursed over her body. She derived pleasure from the fact she could vanquish them not just by the strength of her magical abilities, but through her seductive charms. She delighted in inspiring an all-consuming passion in her lovers, witnessing the ardor in their eyes, the urgency of their kisses, the neediness in their touch. To look into their eyes as they came undone was one of the most arousing experiences she knew of, spell casting included. She liked feeling beautiful and desirable, alluring and enticing.

She loved to be loved.

It was just an illusion, and a temporary one at that, she knew deep inside, but it was what she had always managed to inspire.

_Close enough..._

Of course, her affairs were short-lived. She had no interest in being tied down to any man. Men tended to become possessive, controlling, even desperate in their need to obtain ongoing gratification. She was careful to reveal little about herself, to avoid crossing the path of past lovers, to disappear the moment one of them began to ask too many questions or, more commonly, make demands. She had received her share of gifts, promises, declarations of love and even a few proposals. As flattering as they were, they also meant that it was time to move on. She mistrusted their affections, for as heartfelt as they seemed, they were nothing more than something they nurtured in their own heads: she was nothing more than the charming, sensual woman who offered them pleasure. They knew nothing of her and they would burden her with the other less desirable aspects of intimacy: their faults, failures, insecurities, and vices.

So she moved on, once the illusion grew weaker and could no longer be sustained. All the affairs had to come to an end, eventually. Especially since she could not give them what they imagined they wanted.

But while it lasted, though…she grinned, thinking to herself. There was very little in the world that was as wonderful as a seduction, a chase that culminated into a night of passion.

And right then, Kormac was shaping up as a very serious contender for her affections, she decided, taking a seat between Leah and the Templar.

* * *

She had never been intimate with a Templar, she realized excitedly. She knew little about the Order: mostly that its members were celibate.

Which of course, would only make the challenge sweeter.

She could tell Kormac was intrigued by her. He was endearingly flustered and awkward anytime she was around. He practically jumped when she sat next to him. Her enthusiasm upon finding such an agreeable potential lover in a place she had expected nothing but misery from was an auspicious reward. She had to admit, though, even as she cast him her most beguiling smiles, to a niggling impression that perhaps it wouldn't be wise to entice the poor man that way. He appeared utterly guileless, completely vulnerable.

 _You could hurt him. Deeply_ , the unpleasant thought emerged, unwelcomed.

 _Or you could give him a memory worth savoring on a bad night. Life is filled with suffering. Why not enjoy its pleasures while we can?_ she shrugged inwardly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Mira's letter is straight from the game.


	9. A Settling of Accounts

Stanislas frowned as he listened to the conversation unfolding at the table behind his chair. Was the witch flirting with Kormac? He strained to listen.

_She is_.

And instead of excusing himself, retiring so he could rest and be prepared for the following day, Kormac was acting like a giant oaf.

_So much for that legendary Templar restraint. A few bats of her lashes and he is hemming and hawing foolishly._

He snorted lightly and took a long draught from his flask, grimacing mildly at the liquor's raspy dryness.

It wasn't just that Kormac's pathetic boyish enthusiasm was annoying him, it was the fact that he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that someone as obviously worldly as she would seek out the amorous attentions of someone who was virtually…a virgin.

It was unfair of her to prey on such an innocent, although he could understand the urge. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd found an outlet for all that pent up… tension. He'd been roaming alone for weeks and weeks before reaching New Tristam. That dry spell had almost led him to do something he would have most certainly regretted, he realized, tilting his flask back again at the sound of Leah's gentle voice.

Leah was not someone whose affections he wished to play with. He liked her, her sweetness, her frankness, determination, and gumption.

_Lovely_! he thought angrily. _This is why I should be doing this alone. A few days with Leah and Kormac and I am feeling protective already._

But the loneliness…sometimes it grew unbearable. He blamed the loneliness for confusing him that night, with Leah. She had filled the silence otherwise haunted by the memories of voices grown quiet long ago. His mind wandered to Haegrid and he envisioned the robust blacksmith chasing his grief away through the bleak night with each strike of his hammer.

_To yet another soul to avenge_ , he thought, despondently, raising his flask towards the fire and taking a large swallow of drink.

"I am going to bed, you two," he heard Leah announce. "I bet Uncle Deckard is asleep over an old tome," she stated tiredly, as she dragged her chair across the floorboards. "Good night, Stanislas," she called out.

He lifted his hand up briefly, still clasping the flask, the liquid swishing around noisily.

He was starting to run low on drink and was nowhere close to the comfortably numb state he was chasing. He leaned to the side of the chair and peered out towards the bar, trying to catch Bron's attention. The man was engrossed in some conversation with a couple local patrons. He waved, but the innkeeper either ignored him or was too enthralled in whatever lurid tales he was being told. He frowned and exhaled heavily.

He risked a glance at Shu and Kormac and couldn't help the derisive smirk on his lips.

Shu sat across from Kormac, her head daintily resting over her fist as she listened very intently to whatever nonsense Kormac was spewing. He caught fragments of their conversation.

"Honor, discipline," Kormac was saying animatedly, "and willpower."

Stanislas arched an eyebrow.

_I suppose he is naming three things he will forsake before the witch has her way with him._

He was suddenly fascinated by their tête-à-tête. He listened, bemused, as Shu stroked Kormac's ego with her attentiveness—all it took was a few well timed interjections, and a low voice intended for his ears only. Supposedly.

_A witch's toolkit of seductions_ , he grinned. _Challenge level: Kormac!_

_He doesn't stand a chance_ , Stanislas decided. He screwed the top back on the flask and debated whether or not he would make Bron fill it up again for him. _Anyway, Kormac is a grown man. He doesn't need me playing mother hen…_

He stood up and rolled his injured shoulder back, a dull stiffness radiating throughout the area. As he strode towards the bar, he noticed Shu slip her hand over Kormac's forearm, out of the corner of his eye.

"But surely, they don't intend you to follow that rule _all_ the time, do they?" she asked with a seductive, honeyed voice. "Only when you are deployed, on a mission or headed to battle, correct?"

"Actually, no…" Kormac began. "We uphold that vow… always."

Stanislas halted at the bar and placed his flask before Bron.

"Fill it up. Quickly. Please."

"Really?" continued, Shu. "It sounds so unfair," she sighed.

Stanislas rolled his eyes.

"I…well, that…" Kormac babbled.

_There goes discipline_ , Stanislas chuckled, turning around and leaning against the bar while he waited for Bron.

* * *

If Kormac was easily flustered, he was not easily persuaded. Shu had a sinking feeling that the mighty Templar took his commitment to his order quite seriously. All her flirtations were having an effect…just not the one she had hoped for.

"Are you ever tempted?" she asked in a quiet voice. Perhaps if she could plant the suggestion in his mind…

"I have forsaken the pleasures of the flesh," Kormac stated, rallying slightly.

"But don't you ever—"

They were startled by a flask being slammed down in the middle of the table.

"What are we talking about?" Stanislas interrupted, a cocky smile on his lips as he straddled a chair.

"Kormac was enlightening me about his order, that's all," Shu stated peevishly, as the Demon Hunter joined them.

"Why? Are you planning on joining?" Stanislas stated with exaggerated innocence.

Shu cast him a withering glare.

"I would consider joining the Templars over the Demon Hunters any day."

Stanislas eyes widened and he laughed heartily. Shu pressed her lips tightly. Things were not going as expected. There was always the peaceful solitude of her squalid quarters…

"But enough about Templars: tell us about you!" he commenced grandly. Kormac sat back and cast the Demon Hunter a puzzled glance. "I want to hear about the great wizards of Shanshan."

"Xiansai," she emphasized crossly.

"And them, as well!" He gulped his drink, smacking his lips.

She was about to excuse herself and retreat to her room, but Kormac beat her to it.

"I am going to call it a night," he declared. "See you in the morning," he added hastily. She bid him a flat goodnight and they watched the Templar disappear down the narrow hallway. When they found themselves alone, she examined the Demon Hunter with a defiant air. He nonchalantly toasted her with his flask.

She could bear it no longer—not his condescending mannerisms, his smug expressions, nor his arrogant attitude. She gracefully splayed her hand before her and deftly fanned her fingers, murmuring a few words under her breath. As Stanislas raised the flask to his mouth once more, he was greeted not with a pleasant flood of astringent liquor, but the clanking rattle of something hitting the flask's neck. He balked and shook the flask. Whatever was in there was now solid. He leaned over the table and tried to peer into the flask's opening.

Ice. She had turned his drink into ice.

"Did you do that?" he marveled, turning the flask upside down and listening to the chunk of ice clang inside the flask as he shook it.

Shu flicked her fingers again quickly and a stream of pungent liquor tumbled out and onto the table. Stanislas hastily turned the flask upright.

"Blasted hell!" he cried, holding his arms up as the liquor trickled off the tabletop.

"Did you do that?" She blinked innocently.

"That was a devious little trick."

"Thank you," she retorted tartly.

"I liked your other trick better." He licked his lips and contemplated her daringly.

"Which one?" she humored him.

"The one where you made Kormac disappear," he teased.

"When you figure out how I did it, please let me know; I'd love to try it on you," she stated coolly.

Bron approached the table, a dishrag in hand.

"I don't think I need to remind you: no—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Stanislas mumbled, seizing the dishrag and patting it over the wet table. The innkeeper shook his head warily and wandered back to the bar.

The two sat across from the table facing each other in an adversarial manner.

"I know your type," Stanislas finally spoke.

"Do you, now?" she feigned surprise. "We, wizards from Shanshan?" she mocked.

He leaned forward, his expression menacing and fierce.

"I can see right through all those airs you put on. You come here acting as if you are better than everyone. You push people around to get what you want. That may work where you come from, but here in Sanctuary—"

"Xiansai is in Sanctuary, you idiot," she interrupted.

He inhaled sharply. That woman had the gift of incensing his temper…

"You are selfish," he accused her in a low voice.

"No more than you," she suggested calmly. "Except you are under the delusion you are performing some great heroic deed."

"At least I am not deliberately toying with people's emotions."

Shu's eyes flashed angrily.

"I believe you are overstepping your bounds."

"That's my job," he smirked.

"You are an insufferable boor," she stated, her voice equally low.

"Oh, Kormac…Are you celibate? Why? Is it very _hard_?" he imitated her manner of speaking, lewdly emphasizing the last word.

She glared.

"Kormac is a good man. He has been through much already," he cautioned her.

"I do not know what your defective half brain has concluded, but I can hardly imagine how my expressing interest in him is a threat."

"You are playing with something serious," Stanislas countered. "You don't think this could end badly? At all?" he questioned, tossing the dishtowel to the side of the table.

"I think this is really none of your business. Kormac is a grown man; he can make his own decisions."

"You don't see how this could go terribly wrong?" he asked, more sincerely.

"What is it to you?" she snapped. "I wonder how he would feel if he knew you were interfering—"

"Don't do it," he asked in a milder manner. "You would hurt him terribly."

"You presume too much," she told him.

"I can't help myself," he exhaled, leaning back into the chair. "My presumptions, my instincts, are exactly what have kept me alive so far."

It was by far the most earnest and candid thing the Demon Hunter had ever said to her. She glanced off, somewhat deflated by her futile attempt to seduce the celibate Templar and her confrontation with that aggravating man.

"There is nothing wrong with two adults seeking warmth from each other on a cold night," she stated quietly. "You speak to me as if I were proposing to eviscerate him rather than merely spend a pleasant evening."

"You might as well eviscerate him. He would not take it well once you left him." They both fell quiet. "Not a woman like you," he said in a low, gentler tone.

They gazed at each other, as if stalled in an impasse. Her eyes browsed over his dark hair, his furrowed, thick eyebrows over piercingly clear grey eyes. He had elegant features: sharp cheekbones, a strong aquiline nose. His beard grew thicker along his jawline, chin, and over his full lips. He was handsome, she had to admit, despite her animosity. He was not her type, anyway; he was tall, lean and wiry. She preferred men who were large and muscular.

_A woman like you,_ he'd said.

Had that been an inadvertent compliment? She peered at the incriminating flask.

"What about a woman like me?" she challenged him.

He blinked at her slowly.

"Leave Kormac be. Choose someone your own size," he finally retorted, averting his eyes.

She took a deep breath.

"You take me for someone with malevolent intentions. I most certainly am not."

"Perhaps you aren't, but have you stopped to think about how setting your sights on a Templar, a man who has devoted himself to a spiritual path, to dedicating his mind and body to an all-consuming cause could be a bad choice? If you ever succeeded it would be because that man would have to betray everything he believes in…And for what? He would think it is for love. He would stake everything on it. I doubt you are as sentimentally inclined."

She bristled at his words. _For love_? _Spare me. Lust, maybe._ She sat up, a familiar hurt dogging her.

"Your dedication to your friend—"

"He is not my friend," Stanislas interrupted her sharply.

"Your dedication to your friend is admirable," she ignored him. "But you know nothing of me. Who I am. What I seek."

"I thought you were seeking the star," he provoked.

"As are you," she pointed out. "But I do not presume to have unveiled your delusional, addle-minded motivations for doing so."

"Ha!" he cried out accusingly. "You just…That! What you did right there!"

She pushed away from the table and stood up.

"I tire of this conversation. And I tire of you. You are welcome to entertain whatever judgment of me you wish—I really care very little for what you think— but you are not welcome to interfere where you are not invited."

He stood up as well, tossing a few coins over the table. Bron raised his head at the sound of clinking metal.

"And I invite you to pay for your own drink." Stanislas winked and turned on his heels towards the hallway.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she called out crossly. "In Xiansai it is not customary to buy your foes a drink."

He glanced halfway over his shoulder, displaying a wicked grin.

"What about in Shanshan?"

She very badly wanted to hurl a fire bolt at him right then. Instead, she exasperatedly placed a coin on the table, before her barely touched tankard of ale, and marched towards the doorway, pushing past the quietly chuckling Stanislas. He smacked his lips with amusement as he watched her storm down the hallway.

"I don't know why you are so angry at me," he lamented insincerely. "I was offering you some helpful advice," he continued, in her wake.

Shu halted before her bedroom door, fumbling in her pouch to retrieve the blasted key so she could see herself free of that wretch. She could see him lazily strolling towards her out of the corner of her eyes. He crossed his arms and languidly leaned his good shoulder against the wall beside her door.

"All I said is that you should cast your sights on someone else. Someone more worldly. Someone who can distinguish between having a good time and…all that other…stuff." He gestured dismissively, as if shooing a fly.

She pulled out her key, but also crossed her arms as she scrutinized his face.

"Don't expect any gratitude for your unsolicited advice," she snapped. "I make my own choices and decisions. Besides, you are being very condescending towards Kormac. He is a decent man, a honorable person and I have to wonder if—"

"He's well endowed?" Stanislas teased.

Shu's cheeks flushed a deep red. She instinctively raised her hand and aimed a stiff slap at Stanislas' face, but the Demon Hunter's reflexes were well honed, and his hand flew up, seizing her wrist before she could strike him.

"It is for Kormac's benefit…as well as yours. Why would you ever want a lovelorn Templar banging down your door?…And when I say banging down, I mean that quite literally," he pointed out to her as she wrested her wrist free.

"I appreciate the advice," she told him between clenched teeth. "But other than Kormac, I'm afraid my choices for a nighttime companion are quite limited."

He was standing so very close, his eyes taking her in, blinking slowly, his lashes long and dark against his clear gaze. Her eyes widened and she stepped back from him.

"Wait…Surely you aren't suggesting…"

It took him a moment to understand what she was implying.

"What? You don't think that I am hinting…"

She placed a hand on her hip.

"Now, _that_ I admit I did not see coming," she grinned shrewdly. "Someone else? Someone more worldly? Someone who can distinguish between matters?..." she teased. "Why, if that isn't a glowing endorsement of your own—"

"You are out of your tiara-adorned mind," he scoffed.

"As if I would ever stoop so—"

"I admit I am not picky, but I prefer warm-blooded partners."

They were exchanging insults face-to-face. Shu glared as her pulse raced. A smoky scent emanated from him.

"How surprising: I never imagined you as one who could handle any kind of heat."

"I've been to many a hellhole and back," he retorted sternly.

She grinned smugly.

"Shame on you: is that any way to refer to your past conquests—"

She had expected him to react in many ways: with flippant nonchalance, biting sarcasm, or even subdued anger. What she hadn't expected was what he did next. Instead of retorting to her insult, he leaned in closer and kissed her. It was a rough kiss—raw and hungry, and when his lips first collided into hers, she had let out a low, muffled cry.

But she did not push him away. Instead, she found herself kissing him back just as urgently, her arms wrapping around his neck as his arms encircled her waist.


	10. A Most Agreeable Agreement

_What am I doing?_

He wished he could blame his behavior on the liquor, but he hadn't had nearly enough to warrant the verdict of drunken impulse. If anything, he wanted to blame her perfume, the trailing odor of tuberoses that clung to her so enticingly and wafted in the air in her wake. He wanted to blame those dark eyes that shone with a disconcerting fieriness even in the dim hallway. Each tug of her lower lip between his, each flicker of her tongue against his, a heady desire insinuated itself with no sign of abating with only the kisses they were exchanging. At one moment they broke away and he gasped, his heart pounding. He sought her eyes and she appeared to him just as flustered, dazed.

Wordlessly, she touch-felt the door for the knob, and without averting her gaze from his, her chest gently heaving, rammed the key into the lock. The door clicked open, groaning noisily on its hinges in the quietude of the deserted hallway. He drew in a sharp breath and slowly released her, as if despondent over a broken spell. To his surprise, he felt a sharp tug to his belt as she hooked her fingers over the thick leather strap and yanked him towards the room.

"Come in," she ordered him in a hushed voice.

He followed her inside, both of them enveloped in the room's darkness. He almost jumped when a small flame leapt before his eyes, emerging magically from her fingers. She pinched the wick of a large candle and the small room was bathed in a soft, golden light.

She was very beautiful, he decided, admiring her in that faint glow.

"I—" he began.

But he was not able to finish. She grabbed him by the arms and pinned him against the door before covering his body with hers and seeking his mouth again.

* * *

He awoke with a start—the room bright in the morning light. He raised his head groggily, momentarily disoriented, before it all came back to him. He yawned sleepily, before letting his head fall back again against the pillow. He was tightly wedged between the wall and Shu's warm body.

Her warm _naked_ body, he thought, with satisfaction, glancing at the sleeping wizard. Stanislas scratched his bare chest. Shu stirred and he held still, wary of awakening her. All manner of awkwardness awaited them, he imagined.

It had been an intense night, he thought, staring at the ceiling, pale yellow water damage stains blooming on the grimy paint. He thought of Kormac and a sheepish feeling overcame him. He smirked.

"Have you been awake long?" He startled at her steady voice addressing him so unexpectedly. He turned his head to meet her brown eyes examining him.

"No," he admitted.

"It's late," she stated, after a moment of silence.

"We should get up," he suggested.

"You first," she proposed. "I'll show up afterwards, so we don't raise any suspicions."

* * *

She rested her head in her hand, her elbow poised over the mattress as she watched him poke about the room collecting his clothes.

He was lean and strong, she thought, taking in his long, firm legs and the well-defined arms.

At one moment he paused, an expression of bewildered confusion on his face. Shu reached across the covers and provocatively dangled his small clothes that had been so hastily removed and mindlessly tossed aside during the night.

"Looking for these?" she cooed.

The look of concern in his face changed into a grimace as he snatched the item from her.

She watched him pull on his clothes slowly, at one point sitting on the edge of the bed to adjust his boots.

"Do you always wear black?" she asked curiously.

"Only every day," he stated distractedly as he adjusted the pouch of ashes around his neck. He'd hoped to get a head start back to the Cathedral. He wondered if the others were curious about his whereabouts: he was often up first and the one to rally the others in preparation of their excursions. He was tugging on one of his boots when he felt Shu's hand brush over his neck. When he peered up, he noticed she was delicately adjusting the collar of his shirt. His tense expression softened. Sitting upright like that, her long hair coursing past her shoulders, slightly covering her breasts, her skin so smooth, she was truly a vision. He dropped his boot and leaned in to plant a parting kiss on her mouth. All kinds of pleasant sensations coursed through his body as she reciprocated, raising her hand to caress his cheek.

_We have to go…_

He drew away from her and they contemplated each other.

"You are a beautiful woman," he stated. "But you knew that already," he added hastily. He slipped his foot into the boot.

She grinned, flattered.

"It is always pleasant to have one's impressions confirmed," she teased.

"Aren't you pleased?" he asked cockily. "This was a much better choice in the end, wasn't it? We spent a…memorable evening…and now I will be gone, out that door, no strings attached," he stated breezily, adjusting his belt. "As if nothing had ever happened," he assured her.

"Mm," she stated approvingly. "Yes—I think we both needed last night…I'm glad we are of the same mind." She reached for the silk robe hanging from the footboard and slipped it on as she rose from the rumpled sheets.

"You can count on my discretion," he informed her with a humorous little head bow.

She smiled broadly.

"And you on mine," she vowed, with a florid curtsey.

He stalled slightly at the door.

"Thank you for a most enjoyable evening."

"Likewise," she quickly replied, at once relieved and saddened to see him leave.

He hesitated for a moment, but thought better of it and departed the room at last.


End file.
